I had such a hard time getting started with this one. It's an odd composition, in my humble opinion, but once I began sketching in the highlights, things seemed to take shape a bit better.

Factoid of the day: To better understand perspective in a painting,Leonardo DaVinci set up two easels and placed a large sheet of glass on them so that it straddled the gap. He then traced what he saw through the glass.

Oh, lots of people warned me about lots of things when I became pregnant with my first child. But the one detail they left out was that, sometimes, the whole dang deal hurts.

Fair warning: I'm throwing a pity party. If you've had a great weekend full of parenting reward and triumph, I'll understand if you head for the door. That's a whole different kind of party, and invitations are few -- so grab one if it's handed to you, and by God, get good and drunk on all that good feeling over there.

Anyway: See, I want to do this right. I want to teach my kids that goodness is its own reward. That patience brings peace. So does forgiveness, of others and of oneself. I want them to know that we can't place expectations on others without first placing them on ourselves. That self respect (and all that it entails) keeps us alive. That love takes many more forms that we ever imagine, but never dies. And that, still, sometimes bad stuff happens that we can do little more about than accept, and for those times, the very best place to head is home. That "home" will always have an open door, no matter where that is. That...well, I could go on and on, and I only hope I have enough time to tell them what little I know.

That's the easy part.

But then these loin-fruits watch. Criticize. Blame. They shine a vivid, harsh light on all the ways in which I screw up. Sure, it's all part of the natural, healthful and necessary process of separating from one's parents. They yell their apartness, scream their independence -- sometimes deafeningly, sometimes so quietly I can't hear it. Sometimes I listen for a pin to drop and am startled by the boulder that lands too close for comfort. And in the aftermath are the questions that haunt me. Am I understanding enough? Am I too understanding? Am I letting go fast enough? Am I hanging on too tightly? I love them. I would do anything to keep them safe, happy, healthy. No question there. Do I show them in the right ways? Do they see it? Am I strict enough? Too lenient? Am I close enough? Am I too close? Am I too into this? Do I love them too much? Is that even possible?

I know it's all part of the plan, but does it have to hurt so much?

Nobody told me I'd feel so misunderstood. Nobody warned me I'd feel unappreciated. That the people I love most could, at times, be so cruel when I try so hard. That I would feel inexcusably, ridiculously, annoyingly sorry for myself.

Nobody, perhaps, except my own parents, in their own way -- but I was too young to listen.

Yet as I was writing this, the voice of someone who looks like me delivered a sudden, funny story about Something That Happened. And then, another, deeper voice drifted down the stairs: "'Night, Mom. Love you."

Nothing could ever sound sweeter. And gratitude works better than morphine.