By Anna Quindlen, Newsweek Columnist and Author


All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past. 

Everything in all the books I once poured over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach., T. Berry Brazelton., Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education, have all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories. What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations --what they taught me, was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all. 

Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One child is toilet trained at 3, his sibling at 2. 

When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow. I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China . Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.

Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the, 'Remember-When- Mom-Did Hall of Fame.' The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pick up. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, 'What did you get wrong?'. (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking? 

But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them, sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get onto the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less. 

Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.
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Have you ever been to............Nashville? Henry and I recently went. It's a really happening, fun place. Here's a little photo representation of our trip - 

The Hermitage - Andrew Jackson's Mansion - This is his tomb. His wife is buried there with him. 
Rachel Donelson Robards Jackson, born Rachel Donelson, was the wife of Andrew Jackson, the 7th             President of the United States
This is Andrew Jackson's wife.

Moon shine

Namaste-ing with a Nashville Buddha!

Fooling Around

THE Ernest Tubb Record Shop

More fooling around

Studio B. You could feel the vib of Chet Atkins, Roy Orbison, Elvis and all the greats there. It's still a very active studio

Had to go to the Grand Ole Opry with my sweet husband

 Lots of great county music (if you like country music and even if you don't) at all hours in the saloons on Music Row in the heart of the city.

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Hope all is well with you all. I've missed writing what's on my mind. Been so busy but.......

My shoulder is healing and I can now do my PT exercises on my own, I'm going to PT every 2 weeks.

My pilot Qi Gong classes have concluded, I learned a lot. I've taught yoga for a long time - teaching Qi gong is very different from teaching yoga. I'm still looking for my Qi gong voice. Had a great bunch of students in the pilot class. For a teacher - the student is so often the teacher in these mindfulness type classes. 

And, I'm hoping to get back to blogging at least once a week.

We're in Maine for a few days. Came to open up camp, pick up fall and winter leaves and sticks and make sure there aren't any dead squirrels in the toilet (the Terminex guy found one once, Yikes! Glad it wasn't me. I mean, I'm glad it wasn't me that found the dead critter, not me that was in the toilet. Although, i have been in the toilet a few times). When we first come up I still lift each lid really slowly expecting some giant woman eating, hungry squirrel to jump out. 

Much love,
Donna Rae

p.s. This is really Rachel. And Andrew. Bet I didn't fool ya. 
p.p.s. By the way, Andrew Jackson was responsible for The Trail of Tears. What was he thinking? Those were my peeps. And yours too. He was very nice to middle class white men. 
p.p.p.s Andrew would not have liked the song "Southern Man". He might have loved the song "Skinheads". I wish I could sit down and talk with Andrew Jackson and tell him what's on my 59 year old mind in 2012.