Did you know you can do less?  It's a secret you won't find on social media or in organized moms groups, but it's true. Did you know that when your children have to be at outdoor soccer practice for two hours, and it's cloudy and windy, you can let them go practice in the chilly evening air while you stay in the car and read a book?  You don't have to pace on the sidelines for two hours to keep warm while your sweet child runs ladders or practices defense, oblivious to your existence, under the tutelage of a volunteer soccer coach.  You can sit in a comfortable seat in the warm air of your car and immerse yourself in a good story. Nobody will even try to stop you.  How to survive soccer practice: don't And when it's time for the Easter Bunny to make its appearance, did you know you can do less there too? You don't have to buy a toddler pool and fill it with books and Legos, pool toys and two-pound chocolate bunnies. You don't have to stuff 100 bright

It's spring.  The world is rubbing its sleepy eyes and stumbling out of bed. The birds are singing from budding tree branches and (when it gets a little warmer) the bees will begin their rounds.  It's time to talk about sex.  Not how babies are made. As has been tradition at least since I was a child, in the spring of fifth grade students gather together at school to sit in uncomfortable silence while a teacher explains the basics of puberty and human reproduction.  Body hair, growth spurts, and menstrual periods, oh my.  I knew my son would get these lessons this school year, and I wanted to get ahead of it. By talking with him beforehand, I hoped to make him more comfortable while also giving him solid, fact-based information before he could hear rumor, innuendo, and falsities from his friends or classmates. Unfortunately, I held a lot of untrue and unhelpful ideas about sex and sexuality when I was young. And I didn't know all the parts of my own anatomy until a college

The picture is not of my mother's hand.  It's a stranger's hand, an anonymous woman's palm pressed flat against a sea of grainy white-gray snow.  The fingers are gently stretched straight. Waves of wrinkles rise over knuckles, like maybe the joints feel a little slow and stiff of late. The nails are short and rounded – practical but well kept – and ever so slightly discolored in silent acknowledgement of mature age. Three tendons stand out in ridges on the back of the hand, a testament of strength. Against a background of tawny skin, roadmaps of blue-green veins crisscross, telling of all the places it's been.  The hand is held next to the imprint of a wild animal's foot – bear or wolf, I can't remember – to illustrate the awesome size and impact of nature. But it's not the paw I care about. I've cropped most of the footprint out of the picture like so many forgotten details.  I desperately want to hold that hand.  I want to reach through the

When I walk downstairs, I touch the handrail on my right as I go. It's not a conscious thought, just a place to grab and steady myself as I take a first step. Neither my grip nor the weight of my hand is strong, and my palm is against the wood for only a second. But after six-and-a-half years, there's a faint yet noticeable spot of wear on the railing from my regular touches. A few inches of dark cherry stain is beginning to rub away, revealing the lighter oak underneath. It's indelible proof of a habit I didn't realize I had, because it had become so routine.  I am here. As a woman, as a mom, I often feel invisible. Clean laundry magically appears in the basket, sinks mysteriously become wiped spotless, permission slips miraculously show up signed and tucked into folders. Little thought is given, even by me, to the things I touch every day.  I recently noticed this mark on the railing and wondered where it had come from, then realized it's me - it's evidence of