It was a little more than a year ago that I received an email in my in-box from a woman named Kristin. She'd read one of my stories (I think it was an essay about my oldest son Carter's broken leg) and was wondering if I'd like to submit writing samples and maybe begin working for ParentDish.

I told her that I was interested, but that lately, I'd been writing mostly about my son Avery, who has Down syndrome. I wanted to keep doing that, because as a new mom to him, I'd been hungry for such stories. But there were very few places that regularly included these kinds of parenting experiences--often I'd been told they were "too scary" or "depressing."

I remember the phone conversation with Kristin clearly. I said, "I want to do it, but can I write about Avery? I hope it will be okay?"

And the rest, as the saying goes, is history--I've written more than 80,000 words over 118 posts at ParentDish, first for Kristin and then for Susan, mostly about being a mom to a son with Down syndrome.

When I began, I worried about the weekly deadlines. I hadn't been on a similar writing schedule since college. And too, I'd had enough experiences in my life that let me know the world isn't always a welcoming place to a writer, or a mama, or a child with an extra chromosome, and I'd be combining all 3.

I wrote my first columns from our house on a hilltop near a lake. As the months progressed, I found myself writing from a fold-down table in a travel trailer, from a coffee shop with deep, velvet couches, from a McDonald's and a Subway and 2 libraries. Later still, from a wobbly table in 70-year-old log cabin, using a dial-up connection that quit whenever the wind blew. Sometimes I'd have tears in my eyes; other times I'd be laughing. But always, I wrote.

I wrote posts in my head while driving to and from the grocery store; I wrote while watching Sesame Street with the little boys, I wrote on long walks. I even wrote posts in my dreams.

There were stories about fumbling and failing; there were stories about cupcakes and jelly beans and lemonade. I wrote about cooking scrambled eggs and wearing fake diamonds and hanging the laundry out to dry. In winter, we made angels in the snow; in summer, I wrote about heat and smoke and forest fires. The cast of characters included my boys--Carter, Avery, and Bennett--and others, in supporting roles, like frogs, a puppy, fish, and an old cat.

The weekly deadlines became a part of me, and what's more, I came to need them. I needed to hear from you each week--to touch base, to connect, to give and receive encouragement and understanding and support. You've helped me be a better writer; you've helped me see how I can be a better friend and wife and mother too, and I'm so very grateful.

But the boys no longer sleep late--they rise with the sun, with me, and the quiet of the early morning has been replaced by boisterous, happy, wakeful children (and the puppy, who has grown into a spotty dog with an impossibly long, curling tail). The daylight passes too quickly and before I know it, the moon is rising and there are stars to count and wishes to name.

The leaves are beginning to turn, and of course each one must be examined and marveled at, then gathered into a pile to be jumped in, again and again. We have bread to bake and pumpkin soup to make and through it all, I have children to raise.

It's time.

If this column at ParentDish has been a podium, it's time to step away and make room for another voice. Another writer, another family, another mama with her own stories to tell. I don't know how to explain it other than to say it's like the moment when I knew I wouldn't be having any more babies. I held a newborn in my arms and thought, Ah, that's nice. Now where are my boys?

Which is to say, it's time to say goodbye. And thank you, for everything.

Remember when you used to care about fashion -- when you used to know who wore what to the Oscars and the Emmys, and when the arrival of the 25 pound September Vogue was an occasion to be celebrated? You know, back before you had kids and everything you owned had to be machine washable and playground appropriate.

Remember that?

You can still indulge your fashionable side, even if it's just vicariously -- and we've got a great place to do it. Our favorite lifestyle blog, StyleDash, has merged with AOL's style channel, StyleList, to create the Internet's go-to site for all things fashion.

If you're looking for the things you loved at StyleDash, they're all still there at the StyleList blog -- and more great things are coming!

Because even if you've been wearing that same t-shirt for three days (and nights) it's fun to see what's out there in the world of fashion. Hop on over and take a look! You might feel inspired to get dressed. Or at least change that t-shirt.

How would you describe your marriage? Happy? Satisfying? Meh? Does it depend on the checking account balance? Or how the kids are behaving? Or just on the weather? You know, divorce is always an option. And according to Ellen Tien, it is an option that many of us fantasize about on a regular basis.

In an essay titled "She's happily married, dreaming of divorce" originally published in the May issue of O Magazine, Tien describes her own marriage as "Less than bliss, better than disaster." She says that she and her husband "remain if not happily married, then steadily so." In other words, they're not divorced. Yet.

But, she claims, she thinks constantly about the possibility of divorce, acknowledges it as an option. It is just an option she has not yet exercised. In this, she says, she is not unlike other women her age and class -- we are all dreaming of divorce despite the fact that we claim to be happily married.

Brian Wilson of Beach Boys fame is finding fatherhood the second time around to be a bit different than the first. For starters, he is clean and sober now. Wilson has made no secret of his past struggles with drub abuse and mental illness and his relationship with daughters Wendy, 38 and Carnie, 40 remains strained. "I don't talk to them very much. I used to. I recorded with them at one time, but I don't talk to them a lot," he says.

But these days it seems that Wilson has conquered his demons and with the help of a heavy dose of antidepressants, is back to making music. He is also back to being a dad with wife Melinda Ledbetter, who he married in 1995. The couple have three children - 11-year-old Daria, 10-year-old Delanie and 4-year-old Dylan. But from the sounds of it, 66-year-old Wilson isn't finding parenthood to be all that easy this time around, either. He admits that a house full of kids and pets can be "very loud" and he often escapes alone to walk in the park. "The kids make me feel a little jumpy," he says. "Sometimes I want to get out of the house to get away from my kids but I love my kids a lot. I love my kids. ... Quiet time comes around 10 at night when I go to sleep. It's peace of mind. Things run smoothly at night. During the day, things are more rough."

Wilson's difficulty in dealing with the noise of children probably isn't just due to his advanced age. He has been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type, which often involves auditory hallucinations. Add to that the neurological damage done by the vast amounts of antipsychotic drugs he was prescribed in the 1980's and it is no wonder he's feeling a little overwhelmed.

But still, Wilson says he is a happy man these days. "I'm happier now than I was a year ago," Wilson said recently. "I started exercising and I started eating more of the right food and I started feeling better. I just get up in the morning and say my prayers."

Wilson's new album, That Lucky Old Son, is scheduled for release on September 2nd and will be followed by a tour.

Despite rumors that their marriage is on the skids, Madonna and husband Guy Ritchie have renewed their vows. According to reports the two resealed the deal this past weekend in a Kabbalah ceremony in Ritchie's native London.

If reports are to be believed, Madge flew her Kabbalah teacher over from Los Angeles to lead the proceedings. The unnamed source went on to say that the pair arrived in gym clothes and changed into white robes before the vows renewal took place, stating they wanted to get through a rough patch in their marriage and make it strong again.

Let's hope if they did hit a rough patch they're working it out. Hard to say why I feel this way, but for a woman who has everything, it seems like Madonna ought to be able to have a marriage that works, too. She may be a material girl and all, but I think she deserves the right to be happy. And if being married is what will make her happy, then I say go for it and do whatever it takes to stay together! Good luck to the two!

When I was a teenager, I spent a lot of time listening to music, and perhaps even more money on t-shirts from the concerts I attended. I've kept them faithfully over the years. In fact, they've traveled from Kentucky to New York several times and have still remained intact, tucked away somewhere safe for all this time. My husband also have quite a collection of his own that he brought to our marriage. Many of his are tucked away too.

I occasionally wear mine every once in a while, and some of his (his are cooler). For the most part, though, they sit in storage waiting for us to do something with them. Perhaps we hold on to them for nostalgic purposes. Perhaps we keep them in hopes of turning them over to our children one day--at least that's what I told myself upon recent purchases of concert t-shirts from both Police and Springsteen concerts. Maybe then my kids will think I was cool.

But, other than storing and waiting, what is to be done with all those t-shirts? Some have suggested cutting off the fronts and backs and using them to make a giant quilt. That would be very cool. I countered that notion with, hey, why stop at a quilt--you could do throw pillows, the whole nine yards. Others say to sell on e-bay or donate to charity or just use them as rags like the rest of the old t-shirts. Some say, better yet, don't buy them--they're too expensive and just sit in the closet. And that kids won't think you're any cooler for having them (and having kept them all these years).

What did you do with all your old concert t-shirts? Are they still sitting in a pile somewhere or did you come up with a clever alternative to dumping them?

We almost always have dinner together with the whole family -- Rachel, Jared, Sara, Ezra, and I -- and plan to continue doing so as long as the kids are still living with us. That's the way my folks did it and I think there are definite benefits to sharing a meal together. Of course, there is the occasional exception, but for the most part, we all eat together.

Sometimes, however, that gets a mite tiresome. As much as I love my kids, sometimes I long for adult conversation. Rachel and I talk, but it seems that we invariably end up talking about the kids or other family matters. In addition, we've been together so long (nearly twenty years) and experienced so much together that we're comfortable just being together without talking.

Last night was different. I had dinner with another woman and the conversation was not about whether or not we would take them to the symphony this weekend or when we would get around to clearing out the attic. Instead, we talked of travel and of concerts and of youthful experiences. We laughed, we shared, we had a grand time. We barely even noticed that the kids were there.

In some families, the original isn't always the best when it comes to fathers. For 'fragile families', described as low-income urban families prone to non marital births, mothers say that stepfathers are often more engaged, cooperative and willing to share responsibilities than married biological fathers.

A new study finds that while married biological fathers and stepfathers may be almost equally engaged with the children themselves, it is their interaction with mom that often makes stepfathers better parents. The mothers surveyed reported that stepfathers shared their parental views and were more open to talking about their parental wants than natural fathers. Rebekah Levine Coley, a developmental psychologist at Boston College, says this is probably because stepfathers "have to work harder to fit in and to have a useful productive role."

Coley says the findings contradict the popular view among social workers and experts that dads are more invested if the child is of their own flesh and blood. "I think this research does, to some extent, call some of those assumptions into question," she said.

The conclusions were made after interviewing 2,098 urban mothers from the The Fragile Families and Child Wellbeing study and will be published in the Journal of Marriage and Family.

Nearly 5 years ago, I found myself at a wedding in a city far from my home, away from my 3-month-old twins who'd been born prematurely, and had recently been released from the NICU.

The fact that I would leave my family at such a time to travel to this wedding says a lot about the couple being married that day: I'd known the bride since girlhood and felt as close to her as if she were a sister.

Being mom to 3 children was still new to me, then; people would ask if I had kids and I'd answer, "Yes, a 4-year-old," and then hastily add, "And twins! The babies are 3 months."

Only sometimes did I say that my son Avery had Down syndrome. I didn't have the words figured out, yet. I didn't know how to manage my reactions as well as the reactions of others. Even the terms were problematic: sometimes I'd say "Down syndrome," sometimes I preferred "Trisomy 21," which sounded (to me) more scientific and was less likely to elicit stereotypes.

Too, I sometimes said too much. I'd go into great detail about all of it--my water breaking at dawn (what a lovely image!) and the premature delivery and Avery's diagnosis, on and on, until I was exhausted and so was my poor conversation partner, whom I'm sure was regretting the one simple question that unlocked Pandora's box.

We've all seen swimmer Micheal Phelps' mother and sisters cheering him on from the stands as he makes history at the Beijing Olympics. Conspicuously missing from this family picture is his father, Fred. Not only is Fred absent in China, he hasn't even spoken to his son since the games began.

"He's so busy, I'm sure not even his agent can get a hold of him," Fred said. "I'm very proud of him and all he's done. This is not about me, it's about him."
Michael's parents were high school sweethearts who divorced when he was just nine years old. "It was like a storybook [marriage], but sometimes chapters go in different directions," says his mother Debbie. "We were close, but we grew apart."

Clearly Fred Phelps grew apart not just from his wife, but from his son as well. When Fred showed up at the 2004 Olympic Games in Athens, Michael admitted that up until that point, he hadn't been in contact with his father since he graduated high school. He also revealed that his father hadn't even reached out to him after he set his first world record in 2001. "There are reasons and I really don't want to get into that," Michael said.

Whatever those reasons were, they clearly were not resolved. After the 2004 Games, father and son became estranged once more. And while Fred Phelps watches from afar, Michael Phelps gives credit for his success where credit is due. "The person I love the most is sitting in the front row - my mom - for everything she's done," Michael told reporters in Beijing.

Yes, he does. The action movie star recently divulged that he wants a large family to Ok! magazine. Diesel, real name Mark Sinclair Vincent, a native New Yorker, says he wants twelve kids!

Diesel recently became a father to a daughter, and apparently the experience has been a good one! Diesel and girlfriend Paloma Jimenez welcomed the tot, whose name has not been revealed, four months ago.

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The actor says being in the movie The Pacifier solidified his desire for children. Being around all the babies awakened his paternal instincts. Yes, even the star of such movies as The Fast and The Furious has paternal instincts!

From Mary McDonnell finding an abandoned baby in the bushes while jogging in Grand Canyon to Jennifer Garner's desire to adopt in Juno, it would seem that Hollywood, if not the rest of the world, sees adoption as primarily a female goal. According to a new report, however, adoption is apparently a guy thing. Like just about twice as much a guy thing.

Data from the 2002 National Survey of Family Growth showed that more than 1.2 million men and just over six hundred thousand women had adopted children. The report also noted, though, that at least part of the difference may be due to men marrying and adopting their new spouse's children from a prior relationship. Still, even allowing for that situation, you simply can't make the claim that adoption is something only women think about.

My father grew up in an orphanage, so I do like the idea of adopting. If money weren't a consideration, I would definitely think about adopting a couple of kids. I know there are a lot of kids out there that need families; it's good to know that guys are every bit as interested in giving them homes as women are.

Did you and your significant other take a break from the kids this summer? Did you jet off to some exotic locale and enjoy some one-on-one with the one you love? Yeah, me neither. In fact, I don't know one single couple who managed to get away from the kids and spend some quality time alone together this summer. This is definitely good news for our bank accounts, but what about our relationships?

In these times of rising prices and economic uncertainty, what are parents supposed to do when they need a little time to reconnect without the pitter patter of little feet to distract them? A dinner out is nice, but a lot of couples are opting for an adult staycation. It's just like the family staycations we've been talking about, minus the family.

Checking into a local hotel for a night or two may seem a waste with kids, but it definitely has some appeal for parents alone. Lining up a weekend sitter and escaping to a nearby resort or just a nice downtown hotel is the perfect way to get away without getting too far away. I don't know about you, but the opportunity to lounge by a pool, sleep late and order room service is all I really want from a vacation anyway. What about you? Have you enjoyed an adult staycation this year?

My middle son Avery is sitting too close to the television, which is an old fight and not one I'm particularly interested in revisiting at the moment. Like most of America, we've watched the dazzling opening ceremonies of the Olympics in Beijing and we're hooked. I'm rooting for the moms: weightlifter Melanie Roach whose son has autism, and gymnast Oksana Chusovitina, who moved to Germany for her son's oncology treatments.

Avery has 2 favorite events: swimming and gymnastics. When the athletes line up across the pool, he counts, "One, two, three," and then says and signs the word "Go!" The sign for go is thumbs up, index fingers pointing forward, like a starter's gun going off.

If Avery's countdown matches the actual one, and the swimmers dive on his "Go!" he brings his hands to his face and covers it, shy, giggling, and extra-pleased with himself. Avery is 5-years-old. He's my middle son, a fraternal twin, and he has Down syndrome.

Having Down syndrome means, in this instance, that the gymnastics events of the Olympics are one place where he can watch other people who are as flexible as he is. He rolls around our carpet and spreads his legs into splits, or folds himself in half, pulling his feet up to his ears. For good measure, he flips back over and kicks his leg up into the air, so that his toes are almost touching the top of his head.

And when he's finished, he jumps to standing and raises his hands in the air, like the Olympians he sees on television. He waves to the crowd (usually me) then struts off into the kitchen, which is my cue to burst into applause. He returns, shy and giggling again, and dives into my lap for a hug.

Avery is healthy and has had excellent medical care since his birth. As his family, we've received help in the form of physical therapy and speech therapy and connections through our local child development center. We've been able to meet and enjoy other families who live with Down syndrome at annual events, like the upcoming Buddy Walks, which usually take place in the fall and are organized by the more than 275 affiliates across the country. All these things are a normal and natural part of living with disability in the United States; but these rights are not available everywhere in the world.

Before Avery came into my life, like most people, I was aware of another Olympics, a different one, a special one. But it wasn't until I was watching the Beijing Olympics with Avery that I began to understand their importance. The Special Olympics is an international, nonprofit organization dedicated to improving the life of children and adults with intellectual disabilities, by encouraging them to become physically fit through sports training and competition.

And with more than 500,000 athletes from China, more than 210,000 in India, nearly 550,000 in the United States, 600 in Afghanistan and 4,400 in Rwanda, the Special Olympics is more than a sports organization for people with intellectual disabilities--it's a powerful force for social change.

Before this year, my favorite part of the Olympics used to be the medals ceremonies. I loved the athletes for their single-minded pursuit of excellence; when they'd lower their heads ever-so-slightly to receive the medals around their necks, tears always came to my own eyes. To me, the athletes represented perfection, or at least, the human endeavor to obtain it.

But now, watching the Olympics in Beijing this year, with Avery twirling and spinning across our carpet to the music of the floor exercises, or seeing his delight and excitement when the swimmers kick and splash their way to the final lap, I can't help but think that I've been missing the point.

I recalled the opening ceremony--the thousands of athletes marching proudly around the venue. I remembered an announcer commented that most of the participants will not receive medals; that in fact, many countries have never received any medals. And yet they were there, part of it, their dreams shining as brightly as anyone's.

They remind me of Avery, and the extra hours of hard work it took him to learn to walk. Or the amazing concentration it takes for him to speak the word "Go." Or the truly remarkable resilience of the human spirit. It's not the medal that matters to me, anymore. It's where you start, and how you finish, and what you make of the journey in between.

Having a child not only opens up a whole new section of your heart, it also cleans out the tear ducts on a regular basis. Here are some things that are nearly guaranteed to have parents scrambling for a tissue:

• Signs of affection between siblings- We become immune to the sounds of sibling squabbles, but seeing little brothers holding hands or comforting each other? Instant waterworks.
• The Olympics- The competition was always compelling, but having your own child means you can truly relate to what the parents of the athletes are feeling, and for the first time appreciate the sacrifices made to get kids to that level.
• Various "firsts"- The first step, first day of school, first car, all amazing events that remind you how quickly time passes and your baby is no longer much of a baby at all.
• The destruction of a treasure possession- They say 'You can't take it with you', but you CAN pass down Great-Grandma's teapot to the next generation AS LONG AS THEY DIDN'T DROP IT PLAYING CATCH IN THE DRIVEWAY WHILE YOU WERE IN THE BATHROOM.
• When the child does well- pitching a great game, nailing the high note in a solo, it doesn't matter. They did great and the sniffles of pride soon follow.
• When the child tries but bombs- what a brave little soldier!
• Hearing about other children who are sick, hurt, or suffering in anyway, anywhere
• When Dumbo's Mom is taken away after defending him from those horrible kid who were hurting him and she sings the "Baby Mine" song

What has been making your eyeballs leak since you've become a parent?