I remember riding a bus with my husband as a married couple of two weeks, both of us barely twenty years old. We were groping at one another and whispering and giggling and, in general, acting like idiots. We weren't drunk; we just couldn't get home fast enough to put out the fire in our pants. Those days, thankfully, are gone. Those days, sadly, are over.

Of the many things that I have been taught by life, none are more important than this: IT'S NOT ABOUT ME. As kids we think it's all about us. This one is looking at me funny because of my shirt. That one hates me because I got a better grade: I know because she didn't laugh when I told that joke. Everyone knows I have my period. Mom's nervous because I was late last time and because she doesn't trust me. Dad's in a bad mood because I didn't do that job right. My little brother's crying because Mom yelled because I made her upset.

I think I was cleaning a bay window one scorching white July morning when it hit me: an extravagant sense of calm. I hadn't felt this embraced by stillness since early childhood, and it blew hotly into me like the weather outside. True to form, I was unable to accept this cosmic gift without questioning it. Why did peace of mind wash in with today's tide? Who granted me this favor? And did I deserve it? I looked at the calendar: July 31st. An anniversary - the loss of a much wanted almost-baby. I hadn't even thought of it in several weeks: I was busy, having just given birth to my beautiful "do-over." But my inner-calendar was right on schedule.

It's not every day that I think about my children while I'm at work. It's every minute. Almost. I'm sure that my colleagues are sick of hearing about the cute / brilliant / awful thing one or the other of my kids did or said, but I will still not hesitate to share these stories. It's every bit as important to my daily work ritual as is my first cup of coffee, and believe me when I tell you that coffee is important to me. I enjoy collecting the things my kids say and do because it keeps me in touch with them. It's like a psychic paper clip, in a way. As long as their names are on my lips, they don't feel so far away. Even though I am certain that my kids are happy, safe, stimulated and loved, my hungry motherhood mourns that it's not me doing all of it.

Raquel (29) is a senior account manager at a large PR firm. Her work hours are 8:00 - 5:00, at which time she picks her kids up from the afternoon babysitter. She often continues working after the children are in bed. Before she had children, her hours were 9:00 - 8:00. Her husband of nearly five years, Josh (33), is an up and coming journalist for a major newspaper. His work hours are unpredictable, and basically, always. A year ago, he was usually home by 7:00. They moved to the suburbs last year after the birth of their second child, Stevie, now aged 14 months.

I told my husband the name I came up with for my column. "Trenches?" He looked a bit hurt. "Is this combat?" Hmmm, no. But it is sometimes a battle -- to keep the wonder from slowly leaking out of our union, our own identities afloat, and our feet firmly planted on the ground, all at the same time. Hopefully, though, we'll never be bored if we are in the foxhole together. * * * * * I must admit that I was never a great fan of Mr. Rogers. I could never get into the trolley or the revolving museum, for starters.

I told my husband the name I came up with for my column. "Trenches?" He looked a bit hurt. "Is this combat?" Hmmm, no. But it is sometimes a battle -- to keep the wonder from slowly leaking out of our union, our own identities afloat, and our feet firmly planted on the ground, all at the same time. Hopefully, though, we'll never be bored if we are in the foxhole together. * * * * * Getting Down-- to the Heart of the Matter I remember riding a bus with my husband as a married couple of two weeks, both of us barely twenty years old. We were groping at one another and whispering and giggling and, in general, acting like idiots.

The party was over at about 2:00 a.m., because I ended it. My hosts were both about two tequilas away from total liver failure. So I turned off the music, turned on the lights, and started the whole crew cleaning up. There had only been about a dozen of us left, the die-hard revelers. I was high on music, drunk on pheromones, and a bit daiquiri-happy, but relatively lucid. The rest of them were absolutely smashed. So there we were, a bunch of thirty-something, married-with-kids suburbanites, dirty dancing and smoking and lying on the icy lawn.