As I sit in bed with my 2 year old daughter at ten o clock at night watching So You Think You Can Dance, it strikes me that I have lost the battle. Isn't the next line supposed to be but I've won the war? It sure doesn't feel like that after two hours of trying to get her to bed. It feels like I have lost the battle, the war, and the upper hand. Nothing in my life has ever frustrated me as much as trying to get my daughter to sleep. It's partly my fault because I set it up for myself. Once she's asleep, my life can begin. Once she's asleep, I can have a reward. Be it edible or televised it's my hard earned reward. Sometimes it's the dreadful reward of paying bills but even to have a minute alone to do that feels slightly satisfying. On those nights where her bedtime ritual resembles that of the drawn-out end of a monster movie in which the same cycle of "we're ok, oh,no we're not" mirrors my "she's asleep, oh, no she's not." My blood begins to boil and she knows it and plays it, delaying my precious few alone hours. Every time I think she's asleep and I curl up on the couch, out she comes out of her room startling me like a real life Chucky. I put her in bed, she gets out of bed, I put her back in bed, and she gets back out of bed. I think we know where this is going. Nowhere. Futility. I feel like my life has become some sort of existential nightmare in which every hour I must put my kids to sleep. Consecutively. One wakes up, one goes to sleep, one wakes up... It's some odd version of Waiting For Godot or something Sartre would have written if he had had two kids within two years. Everyone spoke to my fears about a second child with this response, "It will get better eventually and they go to bed on their own". I usually just agreed swallowing inwardly my shame at indulging my two and a half year old in such nighttime games. Knowing full well that she's won every tournament we've ever entered together. I've been emotional and unemotional. I've walked her back to her bed a myriad of times. I've sat on her squirmy little hands and swore to myself that I would have her treated for OCD due to hours of her touching her hands, her pillow, the wall, and my belly fat before she'll even think about closing her eyes. I've wondered if her restless leg syndrome was her version of restless eye movement. Maybe it was neurological. I vacillate between compassion and acute anger. I almost always break down in tears in a bathroom. As soon as I finish my release I grab her and we end up in my king sized bed with a bowl of raisinettes between us watching some sort of reality competition on my bedroom television. I know, all kinds of inappropriate. I stare straight ahead. She stares at me with a huge grin and offers me a chocolate raisin happy as a pig in @#@##. That's when my boiling blood immediately goes on simmer. Dammnit. She created a moment. A life moment. How cheesy but how real. I suddenly realize that the best times in my life usually involve moments sitting on my bed with food and friends and TV. I have now gone from wanting to kill my daughter to never wanting this moment to end. Talk about giving your kid a mixed message. Throughout my life, I have unconsciously recreated my "Mom-bond" through my friendships with other women and it's been so rewarding. When I'm with good girlfriends, I always feel valued, smart, funny, cute (when is there not a nice comment about someone's new shirt or haircut?), and listened to. In the presence of what man can one ALWAYS feel that way? Only Gloria Steinem has that much self esteem. Men just don't give enough feedback and women are so much freer with the giving and the getting of positive affirmations. My own daughter will remember these after bedtime "moments" hopefully not just because she got over on mom but maybe because one day she'll feel just as safe and special and loved sitting with four girls and a round of pomegranate martini's unloading about her day and sharing her wants and hopes. Female bonding. I never realized it started with Mom. I know the trend is to have a baby and suddenly realize how much you don't like your own mom's personality or parenting techniques. It seems sometimes to be all about the Mom-bash. Ironic, since just becoming a mom gives serious new meaning to "she really did do the best she could." I'm lucky in that through the years albeit some tricky transitions and necessary growth separations my Mom-bond pretty easily graduated from clinking Nilla wafers to clinking chardonnay glasses. My mother was not as fortunate. Just as her nurturing and sense of humor and capacity to unconditionally love inspired me to seek out the same in my girlfriends, her lack of that has been her motivation to find these qualities in her female counterparts. Enter Vicky and Carolyn. Her "real family". Her real sisters. Recently, my two year old was hospitalized for a serious case of pneumonia. I happened to have been visiting my parents at the time. I was a wreck. But within seconds, Operation Sisterhood was in place. My newborn was whisked away in loving arms and there was a new dinner on the table every night to feed us during our minimal breaks from the hospital. Girlfriends. Family. How do we thank them? When I asked, this was the response I got from Vicky: "When I was having chemo, I never told anyone when my treatments were. Your mother and Carolyn hunted down the nurses, found out where and when and always showed up. And always with cake." My own BFF, Lisa, flew from San Francisco to Florida after a phone call in which I revealed to her that this second bout of PPD involved wishing my son lived somewhere else but that I'd still like to visit him. I think she knew then that she had to leave her own family for a few days. So she faced her fear of flying to come infuse me with some strength. When I explained to her that it felt like I was taking care of someone else's child but not to worry because I really liked the person whose child it was; she was at my house, clear across the country within a couple of weeks lovin' on me and my kids. She helped me feel the good in my life again. Girlfriends. Sometimes it's a martini in front of the TV and sometimes it's something scarier. But they are always there. Without question. Without explanation. Without having to thank. Their only goal: to make our lives better. Anyone out for anything else does not get the honor of the title. Lately, I catch myself trying to prove that I have a life outside of my children and I get so frustrated because it feels so impossible. I have to realize that this is my life. And it doesn't end at 5 or 8 or 10pm. It's ongoing. All day and sometimes, many times all night. Shop never closes and I must succumb to that instead of fighting against it. This job has unorthodox hours but the tradeoff is great. When I look at the bonds that have been created through my series of life's "moments", it makes it easier to get through long and often monotonous day. Maybe I'm actually being a role model to my kids in addition to a high chair cleaner and DVD putter-inner. Oh, who am I kidding? At 8pm, it's cute. At 9pm, I’m willing myself to enjoy these tender precious moments and at 10 pm my life motherfucking sucks ass and all I do all day long is take care of my kids and then I pass out with one sucking milk from my body and the other one squeezing my backflesh. So much for ever getting anything done. Ever. Where is my reward? I know, it's in the fucking "moment."

I have so completely become "that woman", "that mom." "That mom" who used to inspire my eyes to roll in disgust at how she could possibly let her little angel roll around on the floor of a department store or touch the unbought merchandise with his tiny, dirty hands as she waits in line staring aimlessly. "That mom" who lets her toddler wander around the table at a restaurant while she tries to pay the bill. I have most definitely become "that mom" but I now understand what the aimless looks and frazzled dash to pay up and bolt really mean.

Yes, I am now the mom that the woman behind the counter at Barnes and Noble eyes evilly as I let my two year old fondle the tiny display books and the oh-so-tempting miniature Burt's Bee's products as I wait my turn to pay. Of course there are my obligatory, "honey don't touch that, please put that back, we are almost there, please honey, sweetie, angel-pie......."

I know they are all feeble attempts meant more to keep onlookers from rolling their eyes at my indifference to my child's behavior. I know that any stronger discipline would surely end way worse, with damaged unpaid-for calendars, a dramatic flopping onto the bookstore floor and some worked up tears thrown in. So quite frankly, I am silently thrilled and relieved that the furry bookmarks and unnecessary crap at the sales desk keeps my little one so intrigued. And my aimless stares, my weak reprimands are a welcome respite from a day filled with, "what can I get you, what is it, where did you drop it, let me just pull over to look for it, two seconds, two seconds, juice? milk? cookie? crack? what?????!!!!!!!!!!"

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In other words, I have not only become "that mom" but I have also become my daughter's bitch. I'm not proud.

Yes, I am "that mom" with the dirty faced kid shopping at Target. And I get some disgusted looks and some knowing looks but I will never get the adoring look that "that dad" would. "That dad" who is so cute as he struggles and scrambles to appease his little muffin with adorable dribbles of ice cream down her face. "Aww. poor guy, how sweet." No, only the moms should be expected to know how to get through the day sans dirt, boogers, and inappropriate behavior (is there such a thing for a two year old?)

Do I need to call that damn supernanny? It used to be that I could give myself a real ego boost by watching that show and revelling at how great a parent I was. I would never do that, allow that, ignore that..... Cut to me as my child's personal assistant picking up every discarded item thrust from her stroller on her slightest whim without even one lame attempt to correct the situation. I don't know when it switched from the concerted, patient effort to be the enlightened perfect parent to what it has become; making it through the day. I'm not proud.

As I sit here trying to type on the keyboard from which my child has peeled off the M, the N, andthespacebar, I cannot help but feel it is a metaphor. Gone is the ease and flow of life before baby. My fingers can no longer jump effortlessly from letter to letter. With every frustrated double tap of the missing keys, I am reminded that all has been changed forever. And again, I become "that mom". The one I used to speak of snottily. "Why doesn't she just go get her keyboard fixed? Get her haircut? Clean her car? Having a kid shouldn't be your whole life"!

I actually still slightly agree with myself. That is partially why I am sitting here trying to have some time for myself by typing on this awful thing. I would rather be staring at a wall but I already did that earlier today when I should have been taking the computer keyboard to be fixed. Is it that I let myself down or am I more concerned with what a stranger thinks of me? It feels like some odd combination of both. After my child tumbles backwards over a banquet at the local diner and I see my life flash before my eyes, I simultaneously berate myself as I am also aware of the glares from other patrons. Their gasps and whispers, "that mom" so wasn't watching..... She was on her cell, fixing her hair, blowing her nose, staring into space......."

True. All true. And I want to present them with an itemized list of all the things that I've done right. I play a mental video of one day last week where I was engaged and present for 8 hours straight and books were read and put away, vegetables were eaten, teeth were brushed, and bedtime was observed. When I see the disapproving looks as my child devours the cookie I gave her to help make it through the stroller ride home I want to scream, "Where were you yesterday when she ate all of her quinoa and tofu?"

Is it what they think of me or what I think of me? I think it's some strange combination of both. Their glances mirror my deepest fears. Does my child run my life, has she so quickly promoted herself to "boss"? How awful. How easy to judge. Is each "give-in" an insidious climb toward ultimate failure? Am I doing what is easiest for me or what is best for her? I think it might be some crazy combination of both. When I started this parenting journey, I took pride in my schedules, my rules, and the rituals that I had set. But as we both continue to grow, I have to take one challenge at a time with the hope that I can be strong and flexible without breaking. Some days work better than others and my fear of being inconsistent can be replaced with the truth. It can't be summarized by a moment of property destruction or the demanding of a drink or by someone else's eyeroll. My child does dictate my life, and as I try and set some boundaries, I realize that her and I have definitely entered some sort of dance-a-thon in hopes of glimpsing where we each end and begin. I had a child and my commitment has to be to the finishing of this lifelong tango. Even if it is to sometimes be played out in public because it does pay off.

It pays off with the putting back of the candy to the 7-11 counter after just one "no", the thank you to the waitress, the kiss before bed. Small victories along the journey that are sometimes witnessed by others but mostly known in my heart. We will get through the day, the week, the years, trying new dances all the time and trusting that some combinations will work better than others and that's the way it's supposed to be. For us and not anyone else.

Inspired by amendments made by Dr. Ferber in regards to his sleep philosophy, on December 29, 2005, the Styles section of the New York Times ran an article by Amy Harmon in which many co-sleepers voluntarily outed themselves. I myself, felt vindicated.

I had actually gotten to the point where I could say to just about anyone who questioned our sleep situation, "Well, it works for us." Anyone that is, except my own mother. My wonderfully supportive mother in all other ways couldn't bring herself to be OK with the fact that we slumbered with our child. Every possible problem from the baby's dry skin or the slight rash near her eyes was due to her granddaughter "sleeping with the adults". Yes, the "adults". Not her parents, or even her caretakers, but the very disassociated word "adults" pretty much summed up what how she felt about the whole thing.

So, when she came upon this article in her bible, the New York Times, I couldn't help but rejoice inside. It had not been psychologically easy for me to disregard my mother's advice as I had (still have) a tendency to thrive off of her approval, but I had done my own research and bottom line -- it worked for our family. Before I gave birth, when I was first handed the information sheet entitled "The Family Bed" during my breastfeeding class at The Pump Station in Santa Monica, I truly thought I'd be reading about how bed sharing should never under any circumstance be practiced. Even after I had read the article that so voraciously stated all the benefits to co-sleeping, I still found it difficult to wrap my head around. I pretty much dismissed it right then and there knowing in my gut that it wasn't going to be the right choice for us. I remember feeling turned off by the very idea actually. I kept quiet in those classes, a moderate amongst the hardcore home birthers and die hard breast feeders, thinking to myself, "well, I'll give it my all and see what happens." Never once admitting out loud to the class that I looked forward to an epidural and had no real feelings either way about formula. This was even before I had realized that in this group the word Enfamil was synonymous with cyanide. The pressure was on.

Things changed after I had my baby via c-section (not information I readily offered up at the time either, as it seemed outside of the pain avoiding Beverly Hills crowd -- anything not completely natural regarding birthing was just unacceptable in sunny southern Cali). It was tough to be a brand new mom already feeling like people thought I had done it wrong simply because there was no ripping of my vagina involved. I didn't feel like less of a woman at all, I experienced pregnancy and birth just as I was intended to. However, at the time, I felt vulnerable, and having a baby who wouldn't sleep coupled with a sobering dose of postpartum depression only added to my feelings of doom and failure. All of these elements actually supported my next step: co-sleeping. A friend suggested it. She was a level headed mother of two who I had turned to at the time to help get some relief from the tears and fears. She did not breastfeed her kids until they were five (not that there's anything wrong with that), and her two year old now slept in his own room on the other side of the house.

Somehow this legitimized the whole thing for me, plus I was just plain tired of getting up to nurse, swaddle, and rock every hour. Partly because I knew it was best for my baby and had heard it helped with the PPD, and partly because I wanted to be able to fit in as an earthy new mom, I also became determined to breastfeed. There were so many nights of "I can't, I can't anymore" only to wake up with a renewed vigor ala Rocky, to never give up.

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Oh, the drama of it all. I always had my back-up cans of Cyanide/Enfamil, hiding in my bookshelf so the postpartum doula who I had hired to help with this challenge could never discover them. It just made me feel better to know they were there in case I gave in to one of those 2 am panic attacks and decided to indulge my daughter in a big fat milkshake that would magically make her sleep for 4 hours straight. I battled with the voices in my head of the ghosts of breastfeeding counselors past, "One bottle and she'll never go near your breast again, one bottle and nipple confusion will prevail, one toxic concoction of water and powdered chemicals and her development will surely be seriously compromised."

And so a co-sleeper was born. On the one hand I was free to brag to my new crunchy granola circle of baby sling clad mama friends, and another part of me had become a closeted, indulgent, lazy, baby runs this house, don't tell the family or scheduled sister-in-law of my new found freedom. My husband didn't get the subtle sensitivity of it all and met my neurosis with, "Whatever you want is good for me." Can't you angst with me?

But truly it did work for us. Being large-breasted, it took awhile to get the "roll over and nurse in the middle of the night" joy that all the perky breasted mom-babes bragged about. I really felt that just one of my milk-filled boobs was bigger than my entire child and I truly feared I would smother her, but we soon got the hang of it.

The best part of co-sleeping was purely selfish. I needed my sleep and this was helping me to get it. In retrospect, as parenting has become more about her accomplishments and less about mine, I don't need the approval (as much). I get my feedback from watching her thrive, most of which has nothing to do with whether she got the bottle or breast. I would offer, though, that our sleep arrangement -- which incidentally supported the breastfeeding -- has helped us both to thrive. If I get my rest, I can be more present for the both of us. I tried to sell it to Mom with, "We are so eager to push our children into independence here in America," and, "We are the only culture that doesn't sleep with our babies."

But at 3 am when I sometimes have to pick up my now two-year-old child out of her big girl bed because of a bad dream, or maybe it is a bad habit (whose to say?), I do know that I am not thinking about American culture v. Indian customs. I'm thinking about how early I have to get up the next day. Eventually, kids all talk and walk and sleep through the night in their own bed no matter what it took to get them there or how quickly they did it. I'm glad I've gotten to the point with my choices where I can sometimes feel akin to that obnoxious bumper sticker -- "How's my parenting? Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT". It's not quite as angry as that, perhaps more like, "there is no need to even ask the question, no need to hide formula, no need to not fully present the truth of myself to my mom or someone else's au natural mom". So, for now, it feels good to just come out of the closet.

When I was in acting school, there was an exercise we used to do called Private Moment. Basically, it was the challenge to be private in public. Not to recreate what you did while alone, but to actually have some elements of privacy while in front of an audience. It was a scary, self conscious task. One that can never truly be achieved because of The Uncertainty Principle; something or someone has to change merely because it is being observed. But the attempt alone can really make one blush.

Today in the car, I was reminded of this exercise as I watched my daughter eat a jelly donut in her car seat. She smelled it. She talked to it. She bit it and licked it. Her eyes lit up when her tongue stumbled upon the jelly inside. She devoured some parts and slowly inspected the last bites of chewy sugar as if to make them go on forever. At one point she danced and sang with glee while she chewed this damn donut.

Her face was a mess. Her hands were sticky and sometimes her voice was so thick with fried-ness that I couldn't decipher her version of the lyrics to"Doe a Deer." And after it was all over, without hesitation, she reached for the small bag of Munchkins that I had bought for her brother. He had taken one bite of his tiny donut that he held in his tiny hand. One bite sustained him from Dunkin' Donuts to the Borders Bookstore and back home. At times it looked like he was going to maybe sink his little teeth into another morsel and maybe even reach the small goal of ingesting half of this miniature donut hole. But just as he lifted his treat filled hand to his mouth, he was distracted by a book or a piece of lint on the floor. Nothing could ever be distracting enough for my daughter to look away from that jelly donut. She was consumed and I understood completely. It was my son's actions that seemed foreign to me. Outrageous even. I wanted to scream, "You have a donut in your hand, how are you not eating it? And if you really aren't going to eat it, then give it to me!"

At what point do we stop having intimate relationships with donuts? At what point does jelly donut licking become a shameful Private Moment? My daughter was in her own world but had she noticed me observing her, it would not have deterred her from the enjoyable task at hand. It would not have made her blush. It would not have made her think about her indulgence. It would not have made her swear to herself that she would only eat salad for dinner.

When I used to have to pick a Private Moment to do in class, food was always something that came to mind. No, I didn't really want anyone to see me pick my nose or drunk dial an old flame but I really didn't want anyone to see me eat with abandon either. Eating spaghetti in a restaurant with other people sure looks different than sitting on the couch by myself with a bowl of pasta watching The Sopranos. Things do change when they are observed.

Do I want my daughter to stuff gooey filled pastries in her mouth in public? Not so much. But do I want her to lose all the joy associated with feasting on such a fun and nutritionally devoid snack? I'd like for her to be able hone in on some social cues but not because she needs to be liked or slim. And not because her mother frowned upon her eating habits.

I loved watching her eat today. I'll bet, as I looked at her through the rear view mirror, if I had glanced quickly at my own reflection, that my lips were chewing right along with her. Enjoying her enjoyment. I was tiptoeing around her Private Moment. Never wanting to pierce it with the reality of "How To Behave", brought to you by Your Mother. I feel like I read her that book all day every day. I want her to continue to have some Private Moments in front of me and the world. I know the day will come when the door will shut and the headphones will go on. I'm sure one day it will be loud music and a cigarette as she drives herself to high school. But for now it's, Julie Andrews and a Jelly Donut in front of me and it's beautiful.

have recently found myself in defense of Barney. It is a position I really do not care for nor had ever envisioned taking. Yet I find myself saying things like, "well, he does teach the kids manners." Maybe it’s out of complete insecurity because yes (gasp!), I actually let my 18-month-old daughter watch the show. Sometimes. Occasionally? What's the right answer? I suppose it depends on whom you are discussing it with on the playground on any given day.

It’s hard enough to get your sea legs as a new mom so it is completely understandable that one could feel slightly superior among other new moms for not allowing any television and only buying certified organic food, if only to build a bit of confidence for herself. From the moment of conception we are faced with an incredible amount of choices regarding every little detail of this new journey. Choices are good. Respect for other people's choices is even better than the choice itself as it assists us in living peacefully amongst our own diversity. Agreeing to disagree is a fantastic skill to impart to the next generation.

In the spirit of my dad is better than yours, we are now faced with "My mid-wife can kick your C-section loving OB-GYN’s ass". Is the pregnancy/childbirth/kid rearing experience just another opportunity for women to be pitted against each other? Is this what our feminist fore mothers had in my mind when they charged ahead, broke boundaries, and passed down options to us? I don’t think so. Breastfeeding vs. formula feeding, epidural vs. home births, Stay at home moms vs. working moms, Gerber vs. Earth’s Best, city playground sprinklers vs. sushi making classes for the under two set. Can’t we all just get along?

As a fairly new mom with starting-to-steady sea legs, it seems to me that our generation may have gone a bit overboard -- we are forgetting a really good and decent concept entitled "moderation". Is it all the information, the websites, the studies, that are making us take sides? Education and information are invaluable but I’m starting to think that what us new moms need are some better processing skills and a little more tolerance.

A young mom I know scolded her father-in-law for letting her two-year-old son watch an episode of Barney. What bothered me about this is not her choice to ban television but rather her reaction to the situation. After all, what will the toddler take with him? A half an hour of PBS programming or how it felt to watch his mother tear his "Pop Pop" a new one? And whatever happened to special occasions? Permissive grandparents can’t undo the work you’ve done so is there really a need to feel threatened?

What I’m suggesting here is that I think we may have missed the message in all the information. Yes, too much television just like too much junk food is clearly not helpful in any way. But weigh the situation. Is your child home all day eating Twinkies and watching Power Rangers? Or are you on the go, at the park, at play dates, interacting, being a present parent, etc., with the occasional or even ritual half hour of Dora or (gasp!) The Dreaded Barney!

I happen to think that television can be used as a great tool. For my daughter it's much needed downtime after a very active day. An episode of Sesame Street is clearly comforting to her and it allows me to get dinner ready or re-group in any way that I might need to (yes, that could mean staring at a blank wall for thirty minutes with a glass of wine but don't judge me). I don’t have a nanny and I have a husband that is currently working around the clock. I don’t need to burn it at both ends because I live by the hard and fast rule that all TV is BAD! (Did someone say martyr?) OK, enough of the excuses, let me just be raw and truthful -- I bought a new toy and put out good snacks on a very sunny day last week so I could watch Jennifer Aniston on Oprah instead of going to the park. I only made it through the first twenty minutes before the guilt set in and I vowed to myself that I would learn how to used the TiVo.

But I do think we’ve gotten a little extreme. Part of guiding kids through this world is to inspire them to be flexible and appropriately react to what the situation warrants. If you don’t allow the occasional cookie at the party, will the kid walk away with the memory of a struggle or a long life pledge to never eat sugar?

We all just want what is best for our kids and succumbing to parental playground peer pressure is by no means a good thing -- however, there has to be a way to confront things without ostracizing others. When the little old lady next door gives my child cookies I say "thank you, we will save them for later." I have felt the sting when I’ve offered up a Barney book to a youngster near the swings only to hear his mother say, "oh, we don’t watch that terrible show," as if I was handing over the transcript of The Sopranos to her child. This was after I sat with my "Pampered" kid and commended her on her choice to use cloth diapers. Being gracious can equal feeling secure enough in what you are teaching your child at home that you don’t have to do it by belittling someone else -- another great lesson to pass down. (And by the way, could someone please tell me what is wrong with Barney other than him being really annoying? Is there something else I’m not picking up on?)

As I weave through this parenting thing, I'm finding that just like a well-balanced diet, it's just as crucial to have a well-balanced life with lots of variety. For me, that includes letting my child dance her tushie off to a music show on Noggin. It's true, I've sometimes done what is easier rather than what is best for my child. I've run the extra errand knowing full well a nap was needed. I've even let a DVD play twice because people were coming for dinner and I just couldn't get it all done. Here's the thing -- I just want to be able to reveal my guilt to my new mom friends without being judged, compared, or discussed later. Oftentimes, I will express my "failing my child fears" to women friends who do not have kids because they laugh it off in such a way that brings perspective to my life so brilliantly. It frees me up to start fresh and explore other neurosis that have been on hold and have nothing to do with parenting.

It is good to have standards and beliefs. I want the best for my little one, too, and trying to navigate through all the choices thrown at us (marketed to us) is scary. Do the research, but when in doubt trust the instincts not the articles. That is what will make your child’s life special, unique, and fun. It is very overwhelming to have to be accountable for another life for the rest of your own. Good intentions can warp perspective and we can do our children a disservice by losing our fun, our occasional cookie, our one night a week of reality TV (did I just admit to that?). But admitting to not being "perfect" is what is pure, authentic, and connects us to others.

So go ahead, wear you baby in a sling and breastfeed her till she's five or leave her with a nanny 10 days postpartum and jet off to Aspen. Celebrate your choices but celebrate everyone else's, too. I am starting to feel proud of myself as I watch my daughter blossom and say "thank you" (dare I say she learned it from watching Barney?). But it feels like just days ago when I wouldn't volunteer certain information about my child rearing skills for fear of being judged. As her and I both get older and gain more confidence, it's easier to say, "Yes, we co-sleep." I don't hate the mom who "Ferberized" so why should she hate me? Starting a dialog with other real life moms, let's face it, is better than any article you could ever read. An open community where one feels safe to admit what's working and what isn't without someone coming up with an answer for you. Part of this parenting journey is like learning to walk. And moms know from guiding our kids through that milestone that no one can do it for us.

I truly do love being a post modern mom feeding my kid avocado and hummus, but I would never rob her of the joy of a Good Humor bar at the end of a late summer day of playing hard. That’s what makes memories, for me and for her, and memories make life good. And one thing we can agree on is that is ultimately what we all want -- a good life for our kids.