Marilee and I just returned from a 5 day road trip to Richmond, Virginia. We had a packed itinerary–two book readings on Wednesday night, talks to a women's Bible study on Thursday morning and a church forum Thursday night, participation in a "Maker's" series with other artists on Friday night, two parenting classes on Sunday morning and a different event Sunday night. She had some one-on-one time with her mom, which is rather rare. She got her first kiss from a dog. She propped herself up on both knees in preparation for crawling for the first time. It was a great trip. We got in at midnight last night.

I was staying with a friend in Richmond who is at home with her baby, who is just about the same age as Marilee. "I don't know how you do it," she said.

And for once, the answer to that comment seemed very obvious. "I don't."

I mean that in two ways. One, I watched my friend with her son and I thought, I don't know if I have ever sat with Marilee on my lap and read her a book. I don't know that I've ever pointed out animals and their noises. I wasn't feeling guilty about these things, but I was very aware that my station in life–both as a mother of three but also as a woman who is working part time with a nine-month old–dictates less individual attention to my youngest child. I don't do "it," if by it we mean some idealized version of parenting and vocation. Every choice I make to spend time with our children limits what I can do professionally, and vice versa.

I also don't do "it" because I am not alone. I have twenty hours per week of child care with a wonderful woman who considers herself a member of our family. Between our babysitter, Peter, and my mother, father, sisters and brothers-in-law, Penny and William had a wonderful weekend without Mom.

I don't do it all. And I don't do it alone. And it seems to be working out.