My daughter's best friend's mother (got that?) is getting remarried. The young lady, we'll call her Molly, is quite unhappy about it and has spoken to me about it seeking support and comfort. This is tricky.

I've told Molly that though she disapproves of her mother's choice, the man does make her mother happy and her mother does deserve love. Molly does not disagree with me about this but tells me that the man is inappropriate with her mother when she is around, touching and fondling her mother, she says.

The groom-to-be has five children from his previous marriage(s), and though his children are with their mother(s) most of the time, summer vacations and holidays and every other weekend, this will be quite a blended household.

She is concerned because they will eventually sell their home, and she and her sixteen year old sister will be moving into another man's house and will be constantly interacting and living with five other children.

Wow. What can I say to this?

Blended families are kind of like mixing different recipes together. The result will not be one or the other but some kind of new creation. Whether or not this new creation turns into something that everyone can learn to live and hopefully be happy with is the responsibility of both of the adults.

Unfortunately, in this case, the man is feeling a bit threatened by the step-family's attitude, and he doesn't seem to want to do anything to encourage faith and trust for Molly and her sister. The bride to be is feeling protective of her marital choice and defensive when it comes to her family's feelings about her upcoming nuptials.

Consequently, no one is doing anything to make this better. If I knew the woman and man better, I would recommend family counseling, but I'm pretty sure that my advice would not be welcome.

Ah, the bad behavioral patterns that we developed from the time we were a child that followed us into early adulthood, our marriages and our mothering. If you're not careful you will find yourself slipping. And when you're in the moving beyond phase of your divorce, you have to be on the look out for the ghosts of bad behavior from your past.

At 51 I think it's a little late to blame who I am and what I've done, at least in the last decade of two, on my parents. They tried. They did their best. But, it simply wasn't enough. If you're somewhere in my age bracket, then you were raised by the children of the Great Depression. Hell, my mother was born in 1930! Our parents felt that if they clothed, fed and sheltered us, we were good to go. They had no way of knowing how introspective we would all eventually end up becoming.

It's Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs — there are six levels with number one being the most basic, food, clothing and shelter. Six is Self Actualization. Our parents did not have time to consider the meaning of anything outside of paying the mortgage, cooking, working, cleaning. But today, in the throws of the Information Age, we are all searching. Self-help books and DVD sales are at all-time highs.

But, the bottom line is this: We want to love and be loved. However, the exact process to find this Nirvana has eluded us. We're divorcees. Give me a break. Our marriage failed us. We failed our marriage. We walked away for lack of emotional or financial support. We left because of infidelity. We scrambled out barely with our lives in tact.

However, the last thing we need to do is to repeat wrong behavior. If we had become a door mat for our husbands, a "yes" woman, a punching bag — either verbally or physically (me), we need to make sure we're not sliding back into that. Ever.

Here's a question: Should a mother take her daughter to see Sex and the City? Should I even be asking this question?

I loved the series, but I'm 51 years old. Is it proper for a 13 year old to see this movie?

I don't think so, though my daughter is begging me to let her go. She's seen the softened version of SATC on TBS, and she's in love with the characters. She wants to know what happens to them in the end or more specifically if Big and Carrie get married.

Every little girl's dream — a beautiful wedding complete with gown, flowers, an orchestra, an unblemished face — you know the perfect day. We all had it once.

In the third grade, I was set on marrying a preacher. Don't know why other than as a form of rebellion against my older brother and sister who were best buds and were always leaving me out in the cold. Marrying a preacher seemed to be a way to "get them back" for some reason. Using God as my weapon. Hmmmm.

I did marry, but I was six weeks pregnant and nearly 38 years old. I wore an India style outfit I bought at Pier One Imports (when they used to sell clothes) and I felt like crap. We went to the Justice of the Peace. I had to throw up in the middle of the very brief and non-frilly ceremony, but managed to hold it in until we got home.

I was so sick; I barely made it to the bathroom, removing my clothes as I went for fear of getting them stained. It was awful.

Later, and in sweats, I treated myself to Velveeta Cheese & Macaroni (about all I could stomach) while our few guests had Mexican dishes that made my stomach churn. Yeah, it was a great wedding day and a great experience. Some fairy tale.

Now, back to SATC. I've heard, though I do not know, that the movie is not all peaches and cream and that there is a dark ending. "Dark" meaning what, exactly? Don't know.

Family. That is what holidays have traditionally been about. Father helps children celebrate Mother's Day by purchasing a card or two, flowers, a gift.

Maybe he helps your son and daughter prepare a breakfast complete with your favorite French toast, bacon, and eggs.

Today, moving beyond divorce, holidays have changed. This Mother's Day begins with getting out of bed and feeding the cat and the six little kittens now crying for their kitty food, walking the dog, making my bed, starting another load of endless laundry, and watching the weather channel. I watch the weather channel the way some people listen to the news or radio.

I turn the oven on to broil and I grab some Lenders bagels out of the fridge and split them with my fingers. I place them on my mother's 50-year-old pizza pan and slide the pan into the oven. I wait.

I open the fridge to look for my caffeine fix of sweet tea, and the pitcher is empty of anything except a single swallow. I grab my second choice, the kids' Pepsi. I turn and kick the door shut with my right foot. I pull the bagels out of the oven. I yell, "Breakfast!"

Happy Mother's Day to me.

There is no answer. I yell again, "Breakfast!"

I hear shuffling and laughter.

"Mom!"

"What?" I say. "Breakfast!" My frustration and self pity increasing.

My daughter calls me to her room. I stomp back to the hall muttering to myself about ungrateful children and my life without a spouse and no support, and then I open the bedroom door.

Her eyes wide and sparkling. My son stands beside her barely able to contain his laughter.

They pull their hands out from behind their back. She extends a large pink construction paper creation in front of me with pink paper roses glued to it. She has made a card. It is beautiful. My son has made me three Lego puppies.

Since the divorce (two and a half years ago) and in the last year, I have discovered something quite wonderful. It is that each and everything that we do is important. So, consequently, I am no longer in a rush. Seems I spent 12 years rushing, rushing, rushing to please, to prepare, to arrive on time, to make sure "they" were on time, to get things done. And it nearly killed me.

Today, I take pleasure in the smallest of things. I simply look at the job at hand and begin. I cut linings for my friend's drawers today. I did not over think it. I did not look at all the drawers and think, "Oh, my God, there are so many of them."

She gave me the assignment, and I poured myself into it. I sat in the sun at my "work" station, which was a bench on her deck. I sat on a cooler with wheels, and I had a razor blade and a block of wood, an ink pen and a tape measure to complete my work.

I sat and drank a Smirnoff lemonade thing and began the task at hand. I did not care if there were rolls and rolls of this shelf liner that needed to be measured and cut and that the dimensions had to be 19 ¼ for some and 8 ¾ for others. I spread the material and measured and marked and cut using a quarter round to hold down the liner. I ran my blade as close to the quarter round as I could, paying attention to the fact that I wanted the edges to be smooth and not ragged.

I accomplished my task.

When the kids spill Pepsi or milk. When my dog gets sick and throws upon my floor or when the kitchen pipe under the sink leaks and I have to stop my current task or effort to relax and must stoop, bend, twist, unscrew, wipe, I do it willingly and almost happily.

I am a grateful Samurai, today. A soldier with Krud Kutter and Lysol as my weapons.

Have you ever planted a garden and followed all the garden etiquette and made sure that the soil was fertilized and softened to encourage the growth of the new seed or tiny seedling? Have you pulled your children out from their warm beds to rush barefooted and still in their PJs to see the first tiny tomato bursting forth before all the others?

What is it to grow a garden? To till the soil and fight the rocky ground and force the it to make something grow from next to nothing?

As I came into the spring of my first year away from my crazy ex, I decided that the children and I must grow a garden. I took them to the farmer's co-op and together we selected our tiny plants that would entrust their miniscule lives to us for the next several months.

We chose Big Boys (I'd heard they were very good tomatoes) and Earlies and Tommie Toes (what we called them when I was a child). We picked peppers and cucumbers and squash. I let my children decide.

Caty and Joe became excited and began to pick flowers and leafy green things that would help make our tiny house a home. And...I let them. \No rational evaluation of what would or would not grow. They picked their flowers and their vegetables and together we took our bounty to the check out stand.

And when the total came to well over a hundred dollars, I paid the bill with a smile on my face. We were putting our hands in rich dirt and fingering green leaves of various plants. And it all felt so good.

In Middle Tennessee, the ground is filled with rocks. We sit on top of limestone, I think, and the first few inches of soil usually yield a dead end in the form of hard, impenetrable bedrock.

Parenting is tough, but parenting alone is nearly impossible. Unfortunately, we can't give up. I mean I guess we could, and obviously some parents do. But the bottom line is that, once divorced, we have to keep on parenting. And it is definitely a job better shared by two.

My daughter flipped out on me. She is almost 13, and she has simply gone over the deep end. What went wrong? Don't know. Hell, she's just a kid. But she has gotten an idea in her head that she's in charge of her life and that I do not have any right to tell her what to do.

How does this happen?

You give and you give and you give of your time, your love, your compassion, your understanding. You try to give them most of what they need and some of what they want. But somehow they still feel deprived. Somehow they are completely convinced that you have ruined their happiness.

Ah, there's the rub.

And how do you change this?

She threw her brother's $400 Wii on the ground (twice) to prove to him what it feels like to lose something you love. In her case, it was DirecTV. But she'd been behaving so badly that I had to take away something for punishment. The following morning she was acting like someone who was demonically possessed and was refusing to go to school. She was practically foaming at the mouth. No, I'm serious.

I can't exactly manhandle her; she's my child. But I did threaten to spank her (something that almost never happens), and eventually I did. I got "the belt" and I popped her a few times. She was still uncooperative, so I called the school and she ended up talking to the counselor. The counselor told her she didn't have to go to school, but would need to return tomorrow.

So the school counselor helped her get what she wanted. And worse, when she went to school the following day, they asked her about her spanking and whether or not she had any marks. Good God!

In this very sensitive-to-spaying-and-neutering world and in view of all the unwanted dogs and cats in the world, I must beg your forgiveness - I let my cat get pregnant. She wasn't supposed to be in heat, but I shouldn't have let her out. But I did and she is.

But, oh, the sweetness of it all. It is an indulgence that I have let myself experience. In my life of so many losses, I have allowed my cat to grow new lives inside her belly. I have allowed myself to put my hands on her stomach and feel the growing life inside and then as the weeks passed to feel those lives move and kick. One, two, three ... I think I count four.

I have allowed myself to leave work early a few days ago because I sensed that her time was near, and was glad to know I was right as I lifted the tiny lives from my bed (yes, my bed) and the floor and moved them to the box I had carefully prepared for this event. And I gave in to the luxury of the celebration of life and called my best friend to say, "they're here -- they've been born."

And I was delighted when she, too, left her job and rushed to see the new lives that had come to live on Kenneth Avenue with my children and a dog named Brittney, a now mother cat and some sea monkeys.

I sterilized the knife and cut their cords and their birth sacks and helped mama cat adjust as this was a new world for her too, and I smiled as her instincts took over and she cleaned and nursed and settled into her new role as a mother.

They sleep by my bed in their box with a heating pad underneath to keep them extra warm, and I hear the mother gently coo and encourage her new babies to eat and cuddle and finally sleep. I hear her purr. I hear the tiniest of mews coming from the so-very-small mouths of the six new lives that have come into our world.

My brother thinks I'm too lenient with my children. I love him, but he and his wife never had kids. They've been married 28 years. Each has had the same job for nearly 20 years. They live in a home where you can see where the vacuum cleaner made its last stroke.

This is not the real world.

I live in a world filled with a dining table that serves as a place to put everything — bills, toys, drawings, reading glasses, books, clothes. My floor by the front door has a litter of shoes on both sides: tennis shoes, a pair of high heels, sandals, and flip-flops in sizes 7, 8, and 9.

My wooden floors are scuffed.

There is always some sort of sheet covering two of the three cushions of the only new purchase I have made since moving here after Hurricane Katrina — my lovely, comfy couch. The sheet protects my sofa from my dog Brittney's claws and hair and doggy smell, or so I think.

(Oh, and as a matter of reference, the dog came with her name — I rescued her from an abusive 26-year-old male neighbor — and that was the name she'd had for a year and a half.)

We run out of milk. There is often no bread, and we've actually had Edy's Rich & Creamy mint chocolate chip ice cream for dinner. Yep. That's the truth.

And when my son got in trouble for threatening to hurt another boy that he's been in and out of fights with since the beginning of school and got two days of suspension, I punished him with five licks, (not in anger), and no supper.

I felt bad for him because I know that the boy in question is a pain in the ass and has been for my son all year. But, my 11-year-old son has to learn to live within the confines of society, and there is a zero tolerance in schools for hitting or threatening to hit.

Just when you start feeling sorry for yourself because you barely have enough money to pay rent and both kids need new clothes and you're wondering how in the heck you're going to find a home for six new kittens, life smacks you right upside the head.

My friend's granddaughter died Wednesday. She was seven months old. SIDS, perhaps. The autopsy report has not been released.

Life: It's a fragile, fleeting, passing thing.

In the midst of frustration, because my 11- and 12-year-old cannot go one day without quarreling over something, I have to stop and realize how blessed I am to have two healthy children who are able to quarrel. When I want to complain because I've been hacking like a smoker (I don't smoke) because of all the Middle Tennessee pollen that is in every single breath I take, I have to stop and be grateful that I am able to breathe, able to cough, able to have itchy, swelling eyes and a runny nose.

Many years ago when I finally learned that life is all the good and all the bad rolled into one, I felt that I had discovered the secret. If I could look at all things that happen to me and allow them to happen without my feeling cursed, singled out, plotted upon, then I would be able to accept whatever happened to me and roll with it. But, losing a child — I don't know how a mother recovers from that loss. As tough and strong as I like to think I am, would I be able to move forward with life if my son or daughter died?

We've all heard about the seven most difficult things we can face in life: Divorce, job change or loss, relocation, marriage, pregnancy, illness or death, but we don't all have to face these.