It was nearly two years ago that I opened the e-mail that led to these twice-monthly encounters with you.
The missive, from my boss, included one simple question -- "Do you want to write a column?"
I suppose I could, I told him, if you want me to. He refused, however, to share the blame.
"It�s up to you," he countered. "You decide."
Well, I did, cringing as I turned that first one in with the words, "I don�t know what kind of column you were looking for, but I know what you�re going to get."
The words I share with you get their beginnings, almost without fail, from the Monday morning conversations I have with my coworkers. One friend is particularly pushy about these tales, insisting I share them with him time and time again what Short Stuff said or what Boy Wonder is up to now.
Other people find humor in the pudding on the ceiling or the pickles in the toilet, in large part because they don�t have to clean it up.
This friend with the warped sense of humor -- a childless friend who goes home to peace and quiet I might add -- was the force behind the first column that graced this page, as well as nearly every other one that followed.
I can always count on him to give me a gentle nudge when I try to protest that I�m too busy to write this week. And he�s always the first to give me an "Atta girl," when my newest offering rolls off the press.
I�ve got my fans, I always boast, that�s what friends and moms are for.
But the thing that has proved most humbling, and sometimes puzzling to me over the past two year, is that my friends and parents aren�t the only ones reading.
That�s apparent in the feedback I�ve gotten from you, the reader.
I have cards and letters from my comrades in this battle called motherhood.
Some come from grandmothers who�ve already raised their children. They are an encouraging lot.
Once the kids are out of the house, they assure me, the recollection of finding a diaper-less and ash-coated toddler sitting in a fireplace is much funnier than you�d ever imagine the day it actually happens.
And the fact that you have to retrieve an errant teenager who isn�t where she�s supposed to be means that mom is still needed, a feeling that�s much more preferable than sitting home alone. Old age tends to dim the urge to kill your kids, I suppose, especially since they are the ones who gave you those delightful grandchildren, right?
Those of us who are still active-duty mothers understand your real motivation. It�s all about those grandbabies.
The moms of the little ones, on the other hand, tend to e-mail. There�s no time for niceties like fancy stationary and pretty handwriting when you�re chasing a 2-year-old.
My stories, they say, give them encouragement that there�s a light at the end of the tunnel and a reminder to delight in the joys of childhood because the teen years will be so much worse.
As for those martyrs with teenagers, they are the most complimentary of all.
I can count on them to offer phone calls of support. They thank me for the reminder that kids mess up, and it�s still OK to love them.
Not everyone gives birth to a Rhode Scholar or even an honor-roll student, in spite of what your pushy sister-in-law would have you think.
It�s nice to know, they tell me, that they�re not the only one with a kid who sits in the back row and pulls girl�s ponytails.
The most awkward encounters, though I�ll admit they�re mostly awkward on my part, is when I run into a reader while at the grocery store or the ballpark.
Some recognize me from the photo that accompanies these words. Others are acquaintances I�ve lost track of through the years.
Oftentimes they�ll walk up to me talking, as if in the midst of a conversation. It took me a while to realize they are simply sharing a story prompted by my most recent column, continuing, if you will, the conversation that I started with them on the pages of this paper.
It takes me a moment or two to catch up, to realize that they already know the most recent travails of raising Short Stuff, Princess and Boy Wonder because I shared it here.
It�s the feeling you get when a stranger greets you by name, throwing you off kilter for the 30 seconds or so it takes you to realize that you�re still wearing a nametag from a school visit or conference.
The most stunning discovery I�ve gained from sharing these tales with you, is that people are interested in my life.
One reader, way more eloquent than myself, put it simply when she called to explain why she seeks out my blatherings.
"The stuff that my kids are going through is the stuff your kids do, too," she said. "You remind me that I�m not the only one."
That I get. Turn on the television any day of the week and you�ll see precocious kids and out-of-control teens.
Like me, most of your lives don�t resemble Hallmark commercials. They don�t mirror reality television either.
Our kids are smart, but not whiz kid smart. They get in trouble, but it�s not call-the-cops trouble.
They are just kids, and they wander off the beaten path every now and then. Our job is to give them a kick in the rump till they start heading in the right direction. Sometimes it works, more often than not they just get irritated with all that rump kicking.
So if you�re looking for advice on how to rear the perfect child, keep an immaculate house, cook like Julia Child or craft like Martha Stewart, you�re looking in the wrong place.
But if you want to get a glimpse of live in a messy house filled with laughter and a whole lot of drama, meet me back here in two weeks.
You and I will get through this together.