Mothering is of extremes.

Last week, my daughter put on a shiny gold tutu and melted my heart as she showed off her ballet moves and her fabulous, free-style "wiggle-wiggle-pop."

Then, for a few nights going she has broken my heart when she has cried and told me she is afraid of dying.

Now I know why we are only given one birthday per year. Sure, you can argue the logic there can only be one birthday because you are only born once and therefore you can only have one day to celebrate. That is absolutely not the reason we only have one birthday a year. The real reason? Because parents need an entire year to recover from their kids’ birthday parties. For real. Look it up.

My daughter turned eight on April 2nd but through illness after illness after illness (with some swine flu scare thrown in for good measure), we had to postpone her party until this past weekend. Birthday parties where I live are usually a big event. I think it is written in the city by-laws that it has to cost a fortune and be held somewhere fun. You spend hundreds of dollars to show up somewhere with nothing but the birthday girl and some cake and leave with presents and a lighter wallet. But my daughter decided she wanted to have a slumber party. I thought that was a brilliant idea. Both of my boys had sleepover parties when they were around her age. They were easy. They were loud, but easy!

You see with the boys all that I really had to do was put them in the game room with some video games, movies and a pizza. (And occasionally some air freshener to cover over the boy-feet stink.)

This week my baby girl turns eight years old. In some ways it seems as if she has been a part of my life forever. Yet, I cannot believe this little angel is already eight. After the birth of my two boys, my husband and I decided we were finished having children and our family would be complete at four. However, there was a deep longing within me that never quite left. Even though our family was happy and thriving, I always felt as if someone was missing. I assumed that was just how women felt when they decided their child bearing years were over. Basically, I chalked it up to “that is just how it is” and tried to make peace with that longing.

Then at a time when our family most needed a blessing, a time when we needed confirmation of goodness and life, I found out I was pregnant again. To say I was shocked would be the biggest understatement I could possibly make about this event. I took eight home pregnancy tests. (I do realize one would have done it but I knew this pregnancy was impossible and I had to be sure I was not dreaming it up.) After laying all of the tests out side by side seeing all of their various ways of saying that I was indeed pregnant, I sat on the floor and cried. They were not tears of sadness or shock or even disbelief. They were tears of gratitude and joy.

In the first decade of our marriage, my journalist husband traveled a lot. Sometimes he was gone for weeks at a time and usually for enviable reasons like Olympic games and Wimbledon matches. I used those long absences to do things I didn't do when he was home -- like eat cereal for dinner and spend Friday nights after work in the Y hot tub.

And while the missing him could get bad, I mostly enjoyed the freedom, reading late into the night and hogging the bed.

My husband rarely travels for work anymore, a blessed fact considering we have a 5-year-old who badly misses her father when he is gone. This week though, Daddy hasn't been home for a few days. The only benefit Maria sees in this is that she gets to sleep in the big bed with me.

"Whenever Daddy is not here, I get to sleep with you, right?'' she said when he left.

There is no option to say no.

Volunteering in Laylee’s kindergarten class yesterday, I found myself listening to the little six-year-olds look for playmates as they headed out to recess.

One little girl caught my attention. The girl went from person to person, asking if she could play with them at recess. One by one they turned her down, a couple of them quite harshly.

“No. You’re not part of our group anymore.”

“I’m already playing with Amber. We don’t want you.”

“No. I don’t want to play with YOU.”

It hurt to watch them turn her down so callously. Somehow I thought this sort of thing didn’t start until at least 5th grade, maybe junior high. Actually, hopefully never. But I’m realistic and I know how catty girls can be. I know it happens. I was just hoping for a bit of a slow decline into the twisted world of mean girls, queen bees and snotty brats. These girls seem too young.