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Jacob notices things that a lot of children don’t, and perhaps this could be attributed to his inclination toward that which we label abnormal: the autism spectrum. Don’t you think we need a second opinion? asked his father, my husband. And it’s because Jacob teeters on the brink, because he leaves even the psychologist flummoxed, that I am quick to oblige.

I know this mama understands and I pour over her posts, reaching out into this cyber universe to another who feels what I feel. Even though I don’t often write about Jacob and his “issues” on this blog, they are prevalent in my real-life existence. We can’t escape. We can learn to cope. We can learn to guide. But we can’t ignore.

I consider myself a work-at-home-mom, and I find that dividing my time and talent between two jobs I consider to be important a difficult task. Although I could launch into a horribly long-winded post of how family will always come first, I shalll save you from spelling out the obvious. If I had to choose between my family and my career, I would most definitely choose those three beauties that tug at my heart.However, the point of this post is not about choosing; I don’t have to choose. I’ve been afforded the luxury of spending quality time with my babes while pursuing my dream of writing. *Let me clarify that the job on which I am currently working is far from what I would consider ideal. It is but the first rung on the ladder. If anything, it forces me to spend a few hours each day learning how to write efficiently under a deadline, to write what I mean while being concise. Oh, to be concise!**

So I find myself feeling divided, quite like a pie. I am a wife, a mother, a friend. I am a volunteer, an editor, a writer. I am a gardener, a cook, a creator. There are days when all I want to do is sit still in a lawn chair with a cold beer and just relish the sinking sun and twittering birds. But it’s at the precise moment of my becoming immobile when my brain shifts into hyperdrive and I begin mentally amending my 101 lists.

I do have a work schedule:

Monday-Friday I write two of my required content articles and think of two unique titles on topics about which to write. The weekend is my time to write my own articles ~ the ones that, once published in national publications, will go up on my wall. Just in theory, of course.Okay, so I may frame the first one . . .

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Once upon a time I fancied myself a writer of books for wee ones. I cannot help but adopt a Dr. Seus-ish style of writing when penning children’s fiction; it seems quite impossible not to rhyme when creating nonsensical words.

And in a flash of brilliance, I imagined Emily’s fantastical boys and girls and hedgehogs gracing the pages of one of my books (to be) . The sweetness of it all very nearly makes me want to jump for joy!

I was testing him, I was. I watched him through narrowed eyes, a snarky smirk on my face, as he flipped through Jacob’s chart, scanning through five years worth of notes and diagnoses. Don’t you dare, I thought. The tension was palpable as he searched for just the right words. Neither did he want to sound condescending nor accusatory, I am certain, but his brazen flippancy put me on the defensive.

Jacob had been running a fever and complained of a sore throat the entire weekend. On Monday morning, he woke with a brutal cough. And seeing as how Bridget had massive amounts of green goo crusting both eyes closed, a visit to the pediatrician was eminent.

But we couldn’t see our regular physician, the woman I *love,* the doctor who’s doctored my children from the very beginning. My heart sank as the receptionist told me we’d be seeing Him, instead.

I am almost certain it’s not just my kids who, upon confinement in a cell-sized room to wait for minutes on end, become a little monkey-ish. Jacob’s antsiness at the doctor’s office intensifies ten-fold until he is literally hanging from the windows and I am left on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

The nurses know us well.

As does the staff.

I can feel their eyes on us as we walk down the hall. I sense their whispers and sniggers of disbelief at my hyperactive brood.

This man doctor, whom we saw for all of ten minutes, has the bedside manner of an electric eel. His wife, also a pediatrician within the same practice, is just as lovely as can be. They have three children themselves, and I often wonder how they behave at home. She’s the Maria to his Captain Von Trapp. She leads the children in song and dance while he marches them about and summons them with a whistle. At least that’s how I imagine it.

The end of the visit came about, and I felt anxious to leave.

But that’s when he began thumbing through the chart.

Jacob, will you be in kindergarten this year?

My son, who was rolling on the ground at that point and making guttural noises, ignored him.

He’ll be in school, I offer.

And what school will he go to?

It’s Hannah who answered next, excited to be the one who will get to help Jacob on and off the bus and guide him safely to his classroom. I think, why the heck do you want to know which school he will be going to?

Did he have any preschool experience? he wonders aloud.

Yes, I say curtly.

Well . . .

And this is where I leave him hanging. Go on and say it, you ass. Say what you’re thinking.

I just think . . . I mean . . . I think that once he gets in school, you may want to bring him here and let his regular physician evaluate how he is doing.There’s the Golden Nugget! If I were a cruel woman, I would have asked him what, exactly, did he mean.Look, I said, we’ve already seen the psychologist once before, and we happen to have another appointment with her on Thursday afternoon. And Jacob’s doctor has been watching him for years and helping us cope with and understand his problems. She’s been wonderful. Jacob takes medication, as needed. And while he is out of school for the summer, I see no reason why I need to continue to give him his pill.

Ah, very well then.

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I’m often at a loss when explaining Jacob to others. I am keenly aware of their reactions to him; I notice the smallest things, such as the slight recoil if Jacob gets too close and starts to touch hands and arms, the perplexed looks as they wonder, what the hell is wrong with this kid?

I feel like he should wear a shirt that reads: I have ADD and I may have Asperger’s, and I’m still being tested. And I know I am loud and obnoxious and I don’t understand personal space. And I may hug you or kiss you or lick you without warning, so try not to be too freaked out. That’s my normal. But I’m not a bad boy. I don’t piss you off intentionally.

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There are days when I am just so tired, so tired of trying to parent a child I don’t understand. He angers me, and yet I love him so. He pushes me to the very edge, that child, with a maniacal look in his eye and an exuberance that drives one insane. Yet I can’t get enough of him.

He’s my son, and I love him with such a fierce loyalty that only a mother can understand. I have dreams of sucker-punching the woman next door for badmouthing Jacob when he was younger. And it feels good to slap her, to yank her f***ing braid.

But it’s just a dream. And I am not a violent person in real life.

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I’ve slipped before, in moments of anger. I’ve yelled, you make me so mad! I don’t want to be near you! And the way he looks at me wants to make me claw out my eyes.

And moments later we are hugging and kissing each other, and he’s telling me what a wonderful mommy I am.

But I hate myself, nevertheless.

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I never thought that being a parent would be so difficult. I was disillusioned before my kids came along, and I had hardly a care in the world when Hannah was born. She was easy, a piece of cake.

But Jacob. He rips my heart out, throws it on the ground, stomps on it. He’s nearly six, and yet there are times when I swear he has the emotional maturity of a three year old. I have the equivalent of two toddlers in the house: Jacob cries and throws the tantrums; Bridget makes the messes. Together, they are a force to be reckoned with. And they are kicking my butt.

Too many sleepless nights.

Too much to worry about.

Not enough time to get everything done.

Is this what parenting it? Is this what I committed myself to?

They give you all the love in the world.

And all the heartache, too.

We were discussing an upcoming home renovation, my husband and I. Now that our daughter is growing older, we will be renovating a downstairs room so she and our youngest daughter will no longer have to share a tiny space. Right now, the room houses a futon to accommodate guests.

What will you do with the crouton?

My husband and I exchanged confused looks.

Can I sleep on the crouton?

You mean the futon, I laughed.

Her mix-up got me to thinking about other words and phrases that I’ve heard kids misuse. Up until the last snowmelt, which was in April, here in Central-Upstate NY, my son was referring to icicles as bicycles. My youngest daughter, just now beginning to associate colors to objects, frequently refers to everything as bluered. My sister, when she was quite small, called those glossy-paged periodicals you read, mazagines. She referred to those things men (and some women) smoke as cigagars. She often played in the backinyard. And when her mother told her to behave she replied, I am being have.

What makes a person say aminals or cimmanon or basghetti?

Can you think of any other funny words children say?

Pardon the cliche, but it was Christmas in July at our house when the postman delivered a big brown box from ebeanstalk. My children hold the postman in the highest regard; they eagerly anticipate his arrival and the prospect of a letter or package. And the postman knows my children well; he toots his horn and waves to them from the street, talks to them and listens to their crazy stories when hand-delivering the mail to our door.

Awhile ago, I signed up to be a member of ebeanstalk’s Motherboard, a group of moms from across the United States who test and review products for children and then provide feedback. The big brown box contained contents of what I (or rather my youngest child, aged 24 months) was to try out. The first item I plucked from the box was a full-size can of Banana Boat Kids Tear-Free Lotion Spray . As my toddler is a strawberry-blond, fair-skinned pixie, you can imagine the copious amounts of sunblock we go through during the daylight hours. Whilst most children wriggle and squirm away from moms attempting to coat them in white goo, Bridget has learned that going outside means patiently enduring a five-minute rubdown. We’ve tried the spray lotions before (different brand) and she likes how the aerosol spray tickles her skin. I like its ease of use and the fact that it’s less goopy than the bottle variety. Also included was a sample pack of sunblock for the wee variety.

While I was ogling the free sunblock (remember, we spend a small fortune each year and I couldn’t get over the fact that this was free!), Bridget’s toddler eyes spied a hint of blue and red, her two favorite colors, which turned out to be two Baby Einstein cups, one with a sippy lid and the other, a flip-up straw. She also discovered the Baby Einstein divided plate with matching spoon and fork, which she used during lunch today. Bridget *loves* Baby Einstein products.

It was my son (5) who discovered the last goodie in the box, Alex Draw in the Tub bath crayons. We trust and enjoy Alex products, and the kids quickly retreated to the tub to test out the new toy. I was a little concerned that the marks would not easily erase from the walls, but I was pleasantly surprised at how well the included duck sponge wiped the crayon clean. The best part, however, was that my children took multiple baths just so they could play with the bath crayons. Woot!

What a great box, ebeanstalk! Thanks!

Not only does she create fantastic tails that transform little ones into ferocious, yet adorable, lizard-like creatures, Stacy, of Mamas Doodles , knows exactly what sends a girl’s heart aflutter: tutus.

Every birthday girl deserves to be treated like the princess she is, and what perky and precocious and pint-sized pretty with an eye for the feminine fancy wouldn’t love to dance and twirl (or whack a wooden ball) in such a lovely handmade creation? All of Stacy’s tutus are one-of-a kind and completely affordable.

To view Stacy’s tutus, tails, and more, visit her shop , her blog , and her Flickr page .

Whether you are working from home or indulging a hobby, one of the most important steps to take toward creative success is having a space of your own in which to work.

What type of space is best for you? Do you work well in a quiet room, or do you require ambient noise to create? Is your workspace tidy and organized with minimal distractions, or do you function best amongst organized chaos? Do you like bright, well-lit areas, or cozy, darkened spaces?

Whatever your taste or style, recognize it and work with it! Although I have a desk that houses my books on writing, paper supplies, pens, and important files, most of my writing is accomplished with my computer perched in my lap while sitting in the left-hand corner of the couch (usually with my husband in the room, television on, late at night). Likewise, my sewing space is nothing more than a simple table and set of shelves to hold fabric and supplies. Each area is tidy and comfortable and allows me to accomplish what needs to be done.

And that’s the whole idea!