It's the month where romantic love is the star and people are basking in it, passionately seeking it or mourning that it seems to be everywhere but in their heart.

This year, politics is providing some competition for the omnipresence of Valentine's Day, but even the most exciting race in recent history can't compete with love. I'd guess there will be a lot more dinner reservations placed than votes this month.

February is also my anniversary month, so it has even more meaning for me than your garden variety romantic. But, after nearly two decades of married life, while I can still be swayed by sentiment (I'm partial to tulips, you can hold the roses), I know the attention on hearts, flowers and cupid's arrow are only window dressing on the foundation required to honor a commitment for life.

So, when I decided to focus the theme of my column on love, I threw my net a lot farther than the romantic love that defines February. At this stage in my life, what I love is much broader and more complex than a spark or a rush or a head-over-heels experience.

It's cliché to say there are many types of love but it seems so true when, like me, your life is filled with many different types of people who make it richer, better and more sane.

Love at work may make you think of the taboo and illicit but by my definition it's pretty crucial to happiness, since I spend a lot of time with the people at the office.

I love that I work with such smart, interesting, competent people. I love that they are passionate about excellence and that shows in every detail of their work. I love that I am inspired to do my best because I believe in them and what they are capable of. During the stations' coverage of the October wildfires, this commitment to do the right thing seemed to shimmer off of the building. People stayed all day and all night to inform the public or support those who were doing the researching and reporting. It was truly life changing to be a part of it.

I am a person who is blessed with many personal and professional friends. Yet, I can count on the fingers of one hand my most intimate friendships.  I love that when I put my hand out these women reached across and grabbed it and that they are willing to invest the time and care that a quality friendship requires.  I've been seduced by the pull of groups that offer dozens of women to bond and network with, but those connections can't compare with my friends who know my darkest nights and brightest days and are there for me always.

I love the people who care about my children not because they have to or they're supposed to but because they see what is unique about them and they appreciate it – sometimes better than I do. They are teachers and friends; they are therapists who support my son and students who work in my daughter's preschool class. They are coworkers who revel in the stories of my oldest child's spirit and remind me to support it, rather than squelch it. They are parents who compliment my children's manners and make me glad that what I don't always get at home is at least being practiced in public.

Finally, I love what I learn everyday from my children. The slant of their eyes and the curve of their smiles tell the world they are from the same gene pool. But daily their unique personalities force me to see them for the individuals that they are. As a new mother, it was a shock to realize that my oldest daughter wasn't going to be just like me. In fact, in 12 years I've come to learn our personalities couldn't be more different. Yet, I am awed by her energy, determination and creativity. Her self confidence, while sometimes jarring, is laying the path toward the future of leadership that she so desires.

I could spend a whole column on what my son has taught me. Having a child with special needs is an adventure. There are high highs, like the day he brought home his daily report and his teacher wrote "Great Day" on it. That meant there were no outbursts, no refusals to participate, no inappropriate interactions with his classmates. It meant that he behaved just like a "normal" kid. But for me, that day was like getting a raise, or being told I'm beautiful. I saved that report to remind me that some days he's recognized just because he is "special" not because he has "needs." Then, there are days that are so bad I feel like we're taking one step forward and three backwards. But throughout it all, he's taught me to believe that with the love and perseverance and training of his family and supporters he is capable of so much more than I could have imagined just a few years ago.

My youngest, at the tender age of 3, has taught me to be happy for life's unexpected surprises. Every morning she climbs into my bed and curls like a comma against my back. Her mop of dark, wavy hair and her fuzzy purple bear cover my face. It has been three years but I still can't get over this gift of my third child. She has taught me to open my heart to those things that initially seem insurmountable. She has proven to me that I am up for the challenge, and I love her for that.

You would also see the smile that nearly breaks my face as I thank God that I have this job to balance all of those heart warming experiences.

For as much as I enjoy many aspects of the celebration with my kids and family, this is not a week-long Hallmark card commercial. Balancing the needs of my three kids with family obligations and lack of sleep make it more akin to the stories in David Sedaris' Holidays on Ice (which I read each December while nursing a cocktail to prepare myself for the reality of the season.)

The festivities begin and end with a 12-hour drive across the state for the stay at my parents' home. This is with three kids, two adults and an SUV full of luggage, presents, strollers, port-a-crib, etc. We might be able to downsize if it weren't for our pre-teen daughter's fashion needs. While the rest of us have one suitcase and one personal bag each, she prefers to pack several small, stylish bags each with a different purpose. There's the clothes suitcase, the shoes and purses bag, the stuffed animals bag, the book and activities bag, the toiletries and makeup bag (which includes full sized bottles of her shampoo, conditioner, etc. because she can't leave home without them).That doesn't account for her purse, jacket, pillow and several blankets. When I look in the backseat as we're driving down the interstate I can't even see her under all of her stuff.

On the subject of the THREE kids, this year I truly felt the challenge of having spread them so far apart. It's nothing short of a miracle to find activities that can please a 12-year-old, 7-year-old and a 3-year-old. This is especially true when we're out of town without their friends and my support system and it's up to me to provide all the entertainment. Tending to their individual needs and refereeing the bickering reminds me of playing Whac-A-Mole just as I solve one problem (or break up one fight), another one pops up.

When we finally arrive at my parents' home I often feel like we're a plague of locusts descending on a tranquil valley. Within minutes, my parent's clean, neat two-story home is overtaken by five more people and all of their stuff. And they love it!

My parents are ideal grandparents. And my children beam in my mother's presence as no request is too big and no need too small for her loving touch. So, you would think I'd have plenty of time for rest and relaxation during the visit. But, in addition to their grandparenting skills, they are also consummate entertainers and have hosted upwards of 50 people for the last 40 years at their Christmas Eve dinner party. And this is no potluck, BYOB event. They host it all and they do it up big with a tree that hits the ceiling, decorations on every flat surface, an open bar, presents for everyone and even a visit from Santa. My mother is not happy unless the table is overflowing with food.

When I was a child I turned into an indentured servant come each December. For in the early years, my mother insisted on making everything from scratch and as the eldest daughter you can guess who she dubbed her sous chef. Luckily, I enjoy cooking and I learned some of my best recipes in her kitchen. Over the years, however, I have convinced my mother to hire some help with the cooking as I had to stick to my signature recipes when my three kids came along and I couldn't assist as much. But, she's refused to cut back on any of her dishes as she claims each is the favorite of one or another relative. So, we end up with 10 types of appetizers, three pies, two cakes, several types of candy and about six varieties of cookies in addition to the turkey, stuffing, potatoes, vegetables/salads, rolls and cranberries. So, even with help, my parents are prepping for days before the big event and cleaning up for days afterward.

It is completely over the top and the reason "to grandmother's house we go" every year. I often return bleary eyed from the pace, the sugar and the 24/7 family time (except when I lock the bathroom door and hide out in a long, hot shower to escape). But I do it because I can still remember the Christmas Day celebrations at my own grandparents' house in San Francisco. I loved it because of the tradition. As the eldest grandchild I loved my role shepherding my 10 cousins through the three-story house. I loved when my grandpa dressed up as Santa. I loved joining my grandma at the piano to play and lead the family in singing Christmas carols. I loved that for this one day our large, extended family was all together. I was a teenager when my grandparents sold their home and moved into a small condo. I missed Christmas Day at their home for years.

Thanks to my parents, my children are storing the same types of memories every year when we trek across the state to join in this annual tradition. It is a ton of work for my parents, it is not exactly what I'd call a vacation for me. But it is important in a way that I can't put into words. So, until my mother decides to hang up her apron we will make the trip. I will teach my children what she taught me about cooking, I will watch them reconnect with cousins they rarely see, I will get over my exhaustion and be grateful for the gift of this connection and unconditional love. And, on the Whac-A-Mole days, there's always my dad's recliner, a glass of wine, and Holidays on Ice.

Deanna Martin Mackey is the mother of an 11-year-old girl, a 7-year-old boy and a 2-year-old girl. She is an associate general manager at KPBS, and has been writing professionally for 20 years. She is working on her first novel about a family.

I could probably slip out without her noticing if I was OK with wearing flip flops to church. But, Im not. Im old fashioned that way. Its what you get when your Latina mother attended Catholic boarding school and your fathers Irish-Catholic mother wore a starched dress, gloves and a hat to mass every Sunday. My bent toward formality comes honestly. That being said, I have lived in San Diego, land of flip flops, for more than two decades. So Im all for a Casual Friday look at church as long as its neat, not too short or low cut and includes shoes.

On a lazy Sunday morning if my daughter sees me trading my shorts and slippers for real clothes shell wander away from her dolls and ask, Where are we going? Youve got to admire that sense of entitlement. When I tell her Im going to church shell shriek with glee and tear into her room.

I want to wear a dress, shell say. I want to wear tights. Im going to be so pretty.

Its that vision that usually wins me over because shes right, she will be so pretty. With her big blue eyes, chubby cheeks, button nose and irresistible roundness shell look like a dumpling in lace. My willingness to take her is further influenced by the fact that my church has a crying room for families with young children. This room is like a soundproof mini-church with its own pews (filled with childrens books), artwork and even a private bathroom. Its walls are mostly glass so you can see the rest of the congregation but they cant hear you or your kids.

It serves its purpose in allowing parents to bring their little ones to church without having to be embarrassed about their kids shrieks, gas or temper tantrums. The trade-off of being in that room is that you cant fully participate in the service because the audio is inconsistent (and thats being charitable) and the speakers are in constant competition with baby wails and toddler chatter. But, I try and follow along the best I can in between reading stories about the Baby Jesus and providing the lace dumpling a smorgasbord of raisins, crackers and milk. Meanwhile my daughter quickly loses interest in the Bible stories and spends most of her time turning pages and pointing out and imitating the sounds of the animals in the manger.

Shes come to church often enough now that by watching the congregation shes figured out theres some order to the standing, sitting and kneeling. After her reading, shell stand on the kneeling bench and watch what everyones doing. Soon, shes yelling at the parents in the crying room. Stand up! Sing! Get up! She points at the haggard- looking parents who are just hoping to make it through without a meltdown much less able to sit and stand on cue.

I explain to her that everyones doing their best but theyre busy with their kids and cant always sing when she wants.

We usually have to take two bathroom breaks. Once because she has a true need and once because she really enjoys the trash can since it has a nifty foot operated cover. Not that Im complaining since it beats the time that moments before the service began she peed all over the floor of the first pew.

Sometimes I think Im insane to bring her at all, especially after episodes like the potty disaster. But, like anyone exposed to faith, she takes whats meaningful to her from that hour of spirituality. She doesnt understand whats happening but she likes the singing, she likes being with other people and, of course, she loves the opportunity to wear her finery. And when it comes right down to it, I cant think of a better way of introducing her to my faith than by letting her celebrate being part of this community in her own diva way.

Deanna Martin Mackey is the mother of an 11-year-old girl, a 7-year-old boy and a 2-year-old girl. She is an associate general manager at KPBS, and has been writing professionally for 20 years. She is working on her first novel about a family.

If you follow parenting trends you may have heard about a Gen X and Y phenomenon called the Hipster Parent. The term, whose icon some believe is writer Neal Pollack, author of Alternadad, refers to parents who refuse to accept “traditional” parenting roles and engage their kids in enjoying their definition of “cool” music, clothes and experiences.

In preparing to share my take on the Hipster Parent movement, I read several articles. One of them included my favorite line on the trend. While referencing those parents who champion indie music, closets full of retro sneakers, T-shirts with alternative messages, and toddlers, the writer noted, “As they say on Sesame Street, one of these things is not like the others.”

My appreciation for the line is not to say I feel snarky about parents who do think those four things go together, nor do I think there’s just one right path on the parenthood journey. However, there are times when emphasizing the “hipster” over the “parent” makes you wonder when did trying to be cool become embarrassing?

For example, the clothes some Hipster Mommies wear, not in the privacy of their own homes, but at their kids’ schools. On school campuses where the dress guidelines include no spaghetti straps, short shorts or inappropriate messaging on clothes, I’ve seen mothers sporting swaths of midriff, exposed thongs and, my personal favorite, low slung sweat pants with the word “Juicy” printed on the butt. I wonder what her response will be when her pre-teen daughter brings home a T-shirt with “Hottie” on it.

Therein lies the rub for Hipster Parents. No matter how young at heart you are, you’re still the parent and the role model. You can dress your tots in designer duds and forego familiar Pooh Bear and pastels. But some things don’t change no matter what music you (and your kids) listen to nor whether you spend your free time at an amusement park or at baby yoga.

My guess is most Gen X and Y parents have dabbled in “Hipsterism” with a small percentage clinging to either end of the “cool” spectrum. It’s understandable when you consider these generations have more parents who waited to have children and thus spent more than a decade developing as individuals and professionals before they became mommies and daddies. Like teaching an old dog new tricks, the longer you’ve been defining yourself a certain way the harder it is to let that go, even if you add the trump card of parent to your identity.

I do not consider myself a Hipster by any stretch. I think kids should dress like kids, not little adults. I will not take my young children to concerts or cocktail parties or public events meant for adults, I don’t think that’s fair to them or the other attendees. And I still think Disneyland is magical, 34 years after my first visit.

Yet, the songs on my iPod include nearly every genre and era from 1940 to today, and several songs chosen by my 12-year-old daughter. My husband and I have both attended concerts with her and we enjoy it. Several months ago I attended a Baby Loves Disco party at a local nightclub downtown. The idea behind these events is to bring parents with young children together to socialize in a “hip” environment as an alternative to playground playdates. The event took place on a Sunday afternoon when the nightclub is normally closed. There were kid-friendly activities, dancing to a DJ under the strobe lights, juice boxes for the kids, and martinis for the parents. 

Although most aspects of my suburban life with kids are decidedly unhip, I really enjoyed Baby Loves Disco. It had a feel similar to attending a wedding reception (although a bit darker as it was a nightclub) with your kids. Everyone dresses up a little, you get to dance with your husband, you dance with your kids, you meet new people, you eat and drink. It’s definitely more exciting than a day at the park and you get to spend some fun time with your family. My kids loved the dancing, especially with their parents.

Can you be a Hipster Parent for a day? I doubt the true believers would think so, but I’d bet you an iTunes download that for most 30- and 40-something parents, sampling – not being – “hip” is the norm, not the exception.

Its not that I cant handle a weekend on my own with the kids, its just that its so hard. Theres just no denying that three-on-one often means I lose.

There are two philosophies from parents of three or more kids.

There are the parents who say Once youve had two, the third is no big deal. The older ones help with the younger ones. You hardly notice the third kid.

Then there are the parents who are not in denial.

There is no way one more person does not require more work, more love, more energy.

This became alarmingly apparent to me when I realized I had 72 hours to fill with activities, 10 kid-friendly meals to serve and nine bedtimes to enforce on my own, with no backup.

I begin these spouse-free weekends with high hopes on Friday afternoon. I entice my kids with all of the fun things well do if their behavior holds up. But no matter how well-organized and optimistic I am, something always happens because I cant be three places at once.

Here are just a few of the happenings from my weekend.

On Saturday afternoon we arrive at the pool down the street from our house. Weve been there only 15 minutes when my son bounds out of the pool screaming, hopping on one foot. Im in the baby pool with my toddler who doesnt swim and cant be left alone. The more I call to my son to come to me, the louder he howls as he hops around the pool and provides entertainment for the other guests. The lifeguard finally guides him over to me so I can watch my daughter and take a look at his foot. He ends up having a splinter (who knew you could get a splinter in the pool), and my attempts to remove it revive his screaming, causing me to choose potential infection over further embarrassment.

An hour later, foot apparently healed (thank god for chlorine), I instruct my son to shower so we can get going. After the longest shower known to man or boy, he comes toward the table where were waiting. When hes just steps from the table he decides it would be a good idea to walk on top of, instead of around, the lounge chairs separating us.

Before I can stop him hes got his full weight on one of the chairs rubber slats. His leg plunges through the opening between slats and he falls forward, the entire chair hanging off his leg. I manage to grab his head before it hits the ground. The lifeguard runs over and extricates his leg before the whole chair folds and collapses on top of him. As we leave the pool I dont make eye contact with anyone.

When we get home I announce its quiet time and everyone must take a rest. I am exhausted and collapse on the couch with a magazine. I doze off and when I awaken I realize my 2-year-old shadow has left my side. I get up to look for her and as I enter my bedroom I see her through the open bathroom door. She is naked and lifting a dripping scrub brush out of the toilet and rubbing the floor with it. I am incredulous until I reach the bathroom and see her soiled clothes on the floor and the yellow puddle shes trying to mop up with the toilet brush. She proudly tells me Mama, I wet to the bafroom all by myself.

After cleaning her and the floor and getting her dressed, I realize its pushing 6 p.m. and Id better make dinner before they turn on me. Everything is coming together nicely. Ive got macaroni and cheese for the little ones and Im broiling steaks for my older daughter and myself.

I leave the kitchen for a few minutes and when I return I notice the tea kettle is whistling and shaking on top of the stove. None of the burners are on, so I cant figure out whats making it so hot. I open the oven and get my answer.

Our steaks are on fire and flames are leaping out and tapping the cabinet doors. I slam the oven shut and jump back. My eyes rest on my toddler sitting on a stool eating her macaroni at the counter. I wish I could say a calm feeling came over me and I knew exactly what to do. But the truth is I felt sheer panic and a visceral urge to just grab her and run screaming from the house.

Instead, I call my son in and tell him to get the neighbor just in case I need help. Then, I turn off the oven and look for our kitchen fire extinguisher. Ive never used an extinguisher before and through my fear I remind myself to take a deep breath. If I can read, I can figure out how to use it. I pull the pin, make sure I have the can pointed the right way, and open the oven door. The heat is staggering but with only two sprays the fire is out. The kitchen fills with smoke, so I open the doors and windows and burst into tears.

Within a few minutes its all over. The smoke is gone, the steaks are gone, but Ive survived the weekend. While it wasnt perfect, I feel some satisfaction that I retained my sanity through a roller coaster of mishaps. And when youre home alone, thats no small thing.

What are your strategies for getting through a long weekend when you're "home alone"? In the comments section let me know your ideas and share the mishaps you've survived when there are more kids than adults to go around.

Deanna Martin Mackey is the mother of an 11-year-old girl, a 7-year-old boy and a 2-year-old girl. She is an associate general manager at KPBS, and has been writing professionally for 20 years. She is working on her first novel about a family.

I dont like the phrase Terrific 2s because its a sugar-coated version of the Terrible 2s and Id rather take it straight up.

Whoever invented the phrase the Terrible 2s came by it honestly and theres no reason to try and make this toddler phase seem more carefree than it is just to be PC. The truth is the phase isnt always terrible, and sometimes its terrific. Its just that when it is terrible its an 11 on a scale of 1 to 10. And, if youve known kids, youre aware the 2 in Terrible 2s is just a catch-all. The independent-minded, no sharing, its all about me phase can start at 18 months or not until the pint-sized tyrant is 3 (much harder to control when hes bigger and stronger, by the way).

My youngest is pushing the big 3.0 and the order and discipline she demands from her troops (mom, dad, sister and brother) makes boot camp look like a spa day.

Theres no end to the decisions she wants input on and authority over. It all begins when she wakes up. Her insistence on doing things herself has led me to rise 30 minutes earlier than usual to ensure I dont have a mental breakdown trying to balance her need for independence and my need to be on time.

When I enter her room in the morning Ill find her clutching her blanket and leaning heavily against the rungs of her crib. Her flattened curls are like petals against her face. Before I can say good morning, the demands begin.

Mama, I mat (want) to get out. I mat my milky, hot, in a pink sippy cup. I mat to put the top on myself. I mat corn pops in a bag.

I feel like a barista at Starbucks.

But, I have my demands too. I tell her she can have her milky once she gets dressed.

In my book this point is not negotiable. Let them get too comfortable with their milk, cereal and Curious George DVD while still snug in their jammies and youre guaranteed to not get out of the house until the clock strikes 10 and they start asking for a snack.

The clothes come first because they take so long. Although I put my younger kids clothes out every night there comes a time when children realize theres choice in what they wear. Unfortunately, that occurs around the time they learn their colors, which coincides with, yes, the Terrible 2s.

My daughter will lift the clothes Ive chosen onto the edge of one finger and eye them critically, as if shes considering them for inclusion in New Yorks Fashion Week.

No, she says, tossing a blue shirt with a butterfly onto the ground. I mat a pink shirt, I mat to wear shorts, shell add, looking at the pants with horror.

Pink is her favorite color so anything thats not pink often doesnt pass muster with her.

Once shes dressed and milked were off to the car to drive to preschool. This is another exercise in negotiation that should warrant me a Nobel Peace Prize or at least diplomatic immunity.

Not only does she want to climb into her car seat unaided and buckle herself in but she wants no help climbing into the car. This is no small feat when youre clutching a book, a bunny and a sippy cup and your chubby legs cant even reach the cars bottom step. But, its all possible if you have a trusty assistant (a.k.a. mother) to hold your stuff while you huff and puff and climb into the car and into the seat and buckle in while the time ticks, ticks, ticks by. Said mother is of course smiling patiently and not saying things like Hurry up, come on, come on, youll miss breakfast at school and youll starve.

And then theres bedtime. This is how our ritual unfolds. First, she surveys her pajama drawer for either pink PJs or pajamas with flowers. If she finds neither clean then she settles grumpily for whatever is left. After that, sippy cup of hot milky in hand, she chooses her two books. By saying she chooses you might have the idea that she actually picks different books each night, thus exposing herself to a variety of literature. But, sadly, this is not the case. You see, those in the Terrible Twos go through phases where they prefer the same book every night, night after night. A father recently told me hed been reading the same book to his son for a year. I found that idea chilling. I can hold out for a week, maybe two, then if she doesnt agree to a new book I just hide the favorites for a few days so Im assured well be exposed to new authors.

After reading stories, during which Im instructed to place my feet on each side of her as I sit in the rocking chair and she faces me on the ottoman, she then leads us in singing. Im told to sing along to Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, Mary Had a Little Lamb and to boink, boink fack, fack and wuff, wuff when she calls on the pig, duck and dog in Old MacDonald Had a Farm.

By that point, drunk on milk and lulled into slumber by the rocking chair she willingly lays down in her crib, making one last demand before she shuts her eyes.

Mama, I want my blankey, she says,the pink one, and I want the soft part on my body.

You got it, sister.

"Making the decision to have a child-it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body."

--Elizabeth Stone

There are scenes in the movie Waitress that I cant get out of my head because they either repel me or resonate like the word True, true, true dancing before my eyes.

In the film Jenna (Keri Russell), a waitress and pie baker extraordinaire, is married to Earl, (Jeremy Sisto) a jealous, abusive jerk. When Jenna unexpectedly gets pregnant she initially tries to hide the news as shes saving money to leave her husband.

When Earl learns shes having a baby he makes her promise that she wont love the baby more than him. Throughout the film he makes her promise and the aggressive, pathetic look on his face and the blank stare on Jennas face as she mouths I promise is burned into my mind.

As a mother, I know theres no denying what shes really thinking. No mother can make that promise and believe it.

When you hold your child for the first time you are changed. No one else can see it but you know it inside of yourself. Even if you werent sure about having a baby, even if you were afraid you wouldnt be a good mother, the transformation occurs. Every other relationship, responsibility, interest and care in the world falls away and your priority is crystal clear. For me, this is one of the few things I know for sure about motherhood. I am completely secure in my knowledge that first, I am a mother.

This knowledge is initially scary and a little intimidating because you think it threatens everything else you thought you believed: that you couldnt love anyone else as much as your husband or partner, that no pursuit could be as challenging as your career, that you are defined by your creative passion be it writing or painting or surfing or gourmet cooking. You know youve embraced motherhood when the initial fear of this knowledge blossoms into freedom.

There is freedom in knowing who you are and what you value. It is both empowering and motivating. Having a child doesnt stop you from loving or caring about other people or things, but in a world where you cant buy a carton of yogurt without facing 10 choices, it cuts a wide swath through low priorities.

In Waitress, throughout her pregnancy Jenna puts up with verbal and physical abuse from Earl and seems fearful and unsure of how to escape him. The birth of her daughter gives her the strength, in the delivery room no less, to kick him out of her room and her life. Trite? Maybe. But I dont doubt it could happen because the emotion is so true. Its easy to make life-changing decisions when the person theyll affect most is nestled in your arms.

While many mothers decisions are much simpler than deciding to leave a spouse, the motivation for the decisions is the same. Motherhood is grounding. It provides the filter for the choices you make. It influences whether you work and the job you choose to do. Depending on your circumstances, it impacts whether you work one, two or three jobs to support and elevate your children. It affects what you choose to do with your (often minimal) free time. It influences the people you invite into your life.

I recently spent some time with a family friend, a young woman whos been married for a year and is aching for a baby. She is a woman born to be a mother. Ive only know a couple of women like this. Their innate ability to nurture is palpable. I am envious of this because its not something I come to naturally, but something I was blessed to learn from my mother, who is one of these women. I have no doubt my friend will be an outstanding mother, but I have encouraged her to wait when shes asked me about motherhood.

She knows my children very well so I dont have to tell her about how much work it is to care for a child and how challenging it is to manage kids, work, husband and house. I tell her to wait so she has a little more time to define herself and she and her husband have a little more time as a couple before parenting becomes their primary shared activity. Motherhood is powerful and defining. It demands your attention and that is easier to give when you arent worried about what youll miss when you enter its warm embrace.

Deanna Martin Mackey is the mother of an 11-year-old girl, a 7-year-old boy and a 2-year-old girl. She is an associate general manager at KPBS, and has been writing professionally for 20 years. She is working on her first novel about a family.

This is not something I aspire to. In fact, I think the idea is appalling. But my husband and kids find it very appealing. I can understand my husbands interest; he puts the E in Extrovert. But I still havent reconciled with the idea that I produced not one but three future American Idols.

My children decided that they had a future on Nanny 911 after they recalled several incidents of bad behavior involving themselves. But, before I tell you these stories, I have a confession to make. My family is loud. To be specific, were the ones you hear when youre in a restaurant and children are shrieking or a man is talking too loudly on a cell phone. Were the ones youre all staring at in a lobby or at the mall. Thats us. Im not proud of it but to understand these stories I have to fess up.

Some of this loudness is genetic, some is due to the Terrible Twos, some is due to personality, but it all adds up to four of the five of us being very loud. Everywhere we go, our voices carry and were often creating a scene just being ourselves. So, the incidents my children believe made us reality-TV worthy were beyond our normal bedlam.

I Know You Are But What Am I

My husband says that watching our kids alone is no big deal. And thats true until he has to watch all three for more than a few hours. He had that experience, unexpectedly, when I was sick and bedridden one Sunday, all day. Around 10 a.m. when they were delirious with hunger, he decided to go to the bagel shop. To limit our sons loud conversations while waiting in line he asked him to get a booth. When my husband finished ordering he returned to the booth with our daughters. Thats when he discovered our son hadnt been minding his own business. A man leaned into the booth from a table nearby.

Can I have a word with you? The man said to my husband. My husband warily agreed, unsure what the man was going to say.

Your son called me a poo poo head, the man said.

My husband didnt answer at first. He didnt want to talk to this man in the first place because he was busy with our quirky son, tyrannical toddler and over-wrought pre-teen. Now, after hearing poo poo, he really didnt want to talk to him.

He asked our son if he called the man a poo poo head. Our son admitted his crime. My husband asked him to apologize, and he was ready to close this chapter in his parenting book, when the man muttered under his breath, You should teach your kid better manners.

My husband could have let it go. Our older daughter took one look at her fathers face and asked if the food could be for take out. But, you have to remember, this is the Loud Family, and Daddy Loud wasnt about to back down. My husband asked the man if he had kids. He didnt. Then he asked him if he knew what Aspergers Syndrome was. He didnt. Then after the man told my husband he should be a better parent, my husband told him to get educated. Just as their dialogue was heating up, my familys food arrived, the order was all wrong, and the Loud Family got louder.

My husband said normally he would have guided the kids to remain calm while he fixed the order. But after his dialogue with the man he decided to just let it rip and let the man hear the tantrums and screaming so he could prove to him that being called a poo poo head really wasnt so bad after all.

Dont Talk to Strangers

On my sons 7th birthday we went to his favorite restaurant, Souplantation. I always go to the buffet to get the sides he likes to go with his salad. I get his blueberry muffin, his macaroni and cheese, his fruit and his chocolate yogurt with syrup for dessert. I do this because our son is unpredictable and that makes me overprotective.

This time, however, he wanted to go by himself. He reminded me that he was 7 now and I reluctantly agreed. About 10 minutes later I suddenly realized hed been gone too long. I only had to say his name to my husband and he was out of his seat and disappeared into the restaurant crowd.

When they finally returned, my son had a heaping serving of dessert and he sat down to dig into it like nothing had happened. My husband sat down looking perplexed and rubbed his head.

Where was he? I asked.

He was in a booth talking to some men.

Strangers? I said, horrified.

Yep, a bunch of young guys with tattoos and piercings, My husband answered. He was just shooting the shit with them like hed know them for years.

I looked at my son and all I could think was, What would possess him to follow a bunch of strange men, join them in their booth and hang out?

Why did you talk to those men? I asked him.

When I left the table I went to the bathroom first and I heard them talking about some stuff I was interested in so I followed them to their table, he answered, in between bites, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

What were they talking about? I asked him.

I dont know, he said. I sighed and looked at this boy who wants to be independent but still has so far to go.

Dont talk to strangers and dont sit in strangers booths and dont eavesdrop on peoples conversations, I said, feeling only slightly less helpless because although I got that out of my system I was reminded again that for my son 7 is still so very young.

Bounce

We went out for a late breakfast. Our toddler was focused on only one thing. She wanted eggs. She wanted eggs with a laser-like focus. Once she saw a picture of scrambled eggs on the kids menu that was all she could think about or talk about.

Eggs, eggies, mat (want) eggies, Mama mat eggies, she repeated herself incessantly hoping they would come faster if she continued to visualize them. They didnt. In fact, the waitress made a mistake and she was served a plate of Mickey-eared pancakes first. When this happened she stood up in the booth and screamed.

I no mat no paa cakes, she said loudly. Then she yelled Noooo and literally dove off the side of the booth. Luckily, she was sandwiched between her brother and sister so she just bounced once and got stuck behind her brothers back. Her dive was so unexpected, that we just stared at her with her head stuck out of the side of the booth and her feet, like the Wicked Witch of the West, sticking out into her sisters lap. When we got her upright we all burst out laughing.

That was reality-TV worthy, my husband said. And, we all agreed.

I know I'm not the only one with parenting-based Reality-TV moments to share. Submit a comment and tell me your stories. Maybe you're not like me and you want to be on Reality-TV. Tell me why. Don't be afraid, we've all probably seen it before or done it ourselves. As my husband says, just "let it rip." I'll be waiting to read your stories.

Deanna Martin Mackey is the mother of an 11-year-old girl, a 7-year-old boy and a 2-year-old girl. She is an associate general manager at KPBS, and has been writing professionally for 20 years. She is working on her first novel about a family.

The six official languages of the U.N. Arabic, Chinese, English, French, Russian and Spanish have nothing on baby talk. The unique combination of a childs attempts to speak her native language mixed with a secondary language (if theyre bilingual), lisps, stuttering and indignation at not being understood make for a translating nightmare. But mothers are hardwired for this linguistic challenge. We not only understand but can anticipate words from the mouths of babes.

I remember when my oldest daughter was about two she inexplicably began speaking in an Asian-sounding dialect and it rubbed off on her best friend. Sit down and lay down became Ching-dow and ling-dow. Her friend William was Wing Ding and he began calling her May Ling (his tow-headed friend formerly known as Madeline).

At two-and-a-half, my youngest is deep into toddler talk, running off the mouth with no concept that her brother, sister, father and sitter have no idea what she wants. Is she asking to weed the garden or does she want to read? Does she want to play ball or go to the mall? When understanding fails, they just start handing her things to shut her up. Ive seen her leave her brothers room with a sucker in her mouth, her arms filled with super heroes and race cars as she shuffles across the house in his too large slippers.

Almost any conversation with her provides an opportunity for me to use my translation skills. While most of it comes naturally (I believe this knack is like a mothers genetic disposition to nurture) it helps that I once spoke French fluently and am conversational in Spanish. The latter is particularly useful when my daughter mixes languages in one sentence.

Mama, tu make me pee bu jay? my daughter will ask. My brain immediately starts diagramming the sentence for translation. Mama I got. Tu is the informal form of the word you in Spanish. make me I got. Im stuck for a moment on pee bu jay but when she says it a second time I feel like the winner on Jeopardy. Peanut butter and jelly. I got it, I think smugly to myself. I smile at my success as I head to the kitchen to make a sandwich.

While my daughter's communication skills can baffle even those with an ear for languages, her most challenging conversations occur when she wants to talk to her older brother. She is besotted with him and will follow him around in attempts to get him to play with her. When you mix her language skills and his autism their interactions provide poignant comic relief. He often reads to her while I make dinner and I can hear her shrilly demanding a different book than the one hes chosen.

I no mat dat book Wahbit (I dont want that book Robert), she shrieks when he blithely begins reading his favorite Star Wars story to her. Ill hear him negotiating with her, explaining the virtues of books with villains, weapons and danger until they finally settle on The Lion King, which he says at least has some action. When theyre done reading, she asks Wat Kyos Jorj wit me, Wahbit?

I know hell never be able to translate that one. So, before she screams with frustration because he cant understand her, I walk into the family room, turn on the TV and put a Curious George DVD into the player so they can wat it together.

Deanna Martin Mackey is the mother of an 11-year-old girl, a 7-year-old boy and a 2-year-old girl. She is an associate general manager at KPBS, and has been writing professionally for 20 years. She is working on her first novel about a family.

Before my sister and I provided her with grandchildren the microwave was kept in the garage because she used it so infrequently. She only agreed to move it inside to warm up milk and baby food.

I, on the other hand, am a reluctant Microwave Mama and I am not proud of this distinction. As a child, I was my mothers sous chef and I became quite accomplished in the kitchen. In high school I won my hometowns annual chocolate chip cookie baking contest (the prize included a years worth of chocolate chips). In college, Thanksgiving was always celebrated at my apartment, as I was the only one of my friends who had any idea what to do with a turkey. My guacamole is truly unrivaled. Just ask my mother.

So, what happened to my culinary pursuits? Ever since I had children Ive found it almost impossible to cook on a daily basis. I think part of the problem is one of expectations. I really enjoy cooking and cooking for kids is just not that enjoyable. Im also not one of those mothers who can accept making kid-friendly food and then actually eating it. Like the naysaying character in Green Eggs and Ham, I do not like macaroni and cheese, I do not like chicken nuggets, I do not like peanut butter and jelly and I think hot dogs are best eaten at baseball games.

I also do not like cooking in chaos. And in my house, that seems to be unavoidable. Making dinner always starts out normal enough. My two older children will be playing outside, the toddler will be napping and I believe I have an opportunity to cook uninterrupted. I lovingly place my ingredients and utensils on the counter and begin measuring and mixing. I turn the oven on, marinate meat and begin chopping vegetables. Things are going so well that I even open a bottle of wine and take a sip while humming a little, so pleased with myself. Then, my little slice of cooking heaven is disturbed by a blood curdling scream. I look out my kitchen window and see my son chasing his sister while swinging a large stick. At that same moment the little one wakes up from her nap and cries her pitiful cries for milk and her mamas lap. This all usually happens just at the moment that Im delicately folding ingredients for a sauce or trying to remember if I already put salt into the batter.

By the time Ive broken up the fight and comforted the youngest I usually come back to overcooked chops, soggy veggies and too-crispy bread. These types of experiences happen frequently enough that Ive learned most nights I have to lower my expectations to ensure dinner is healthy and edible on a regular basis. So, my visions of spaghetti sauce that Ive simmered all day, homemade chicken cacciatore and flaky sauted fish with caper sauce often translate into pre-made meals (just heat and serve!) from Costco; Chinese, Italian or you-name-it take out; or a store-bought roast chicken with a salad I can actually say I made myself.

When my mother visits, within a day of her arrival my refrigerator and cupboards are full of fresh ingredients for the dishes shell make. She doesnt judge, she just cooks and my kids usually scarf up the food (Yes, on the homemade chicken strips/No, on the parmesan squash) and marvel at what can be accomplished in the kitchen.

I know what youre thinking, you reap what you sow. If I just made it a priority and served up healthy, organic options with no other choices, theyd eat them rather than starve. But thats so much easier to imagine than to do. My kids will try new things and they vary on the pickiness scale but they share one trait. They all began as gourmands, eating the homemade baby food, fruit chunks and diced chicken with gusto. Then, one day, usually around age 2 or 3, they look at the broccoli I so affectionately call little trees and say Dats yucky and give me a disappointed look like Ive betrayed them. Once that day comes the best I can do is serve the little trees with a puddle of ranch dressing and hope a few sprigs of broccoli will stick to their tongues when they dip and lick their veggies.

In the meantime, I keep my subscription to Bon Appetit and approach the magazine the way an adolescent boy looks at a Victorias Secret catalogue. I cant get enough of the pictures of plump, golden won tons, ruby red strawberry sorbet and molten chocolate lava cakes. I carefully read each recipe thinking I could have that, or that, or maybe that.

Since I cant find the time or get organized enough to make many of the meals I lust for, reading the recipes keeps me primed for the day when the kids are less underfoot and I can cook unfettered again. While Im waiting for that time, Ive tried crock pot cooking, Sunday meal-making marathons, grocery delivery and professional kitchens where you pay for access to ingredients and recipes to package meals to go. Ive had varying success with all of these but changing family obligations makes it difficult to stick to any of them. Let me know how you get through the dinner rush. How do you manage balancing prepping and making meals with work and childcare? Until I hear from you, Ill be renewing my Costco card.