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.

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?

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.

Which is to say, I was a bit shaky, at first, being mom of a child with special needs. I wasn't one of the women who felt chosen. I wasn't one of the moms who immediately rolled up her sleeves and got going. I wasn't even particularly good at explaining Down syndrome--I knew it had something to do with genes, but I wasn't really sure what genes were.

At the wedding, my attempts at finding a good way to speak about my life and my new family were equally unsteady. I was surrounded by many old friends, and not telling them felt like a betrayal to my son. But telling them in a lighthearted way, in a "this really doesn't' matter" way, felt untrue, too.

So I did my best, like a pendulum swinging again and again through the center, but never quite managing to rest there.

After the ceremony, we were walking down a busy street, a parade of us from the wedding. I was next to another woman I'd known since we were girls. As we were talking about how beautiful our friend, the bride, looked, and how handsome her groom was, it occurred to me that this woman should know. Apropos of nothing, I blurted out, "My son Avery has Down syndrome."

This was my worst one yet. My eyes began to water and I thought to myself, Get a grip! You can't spring it on people, like that!

My friend stopped walking. She turned to me, took my by the arm, and held it. Her eyes had tears in them, too, and she said in a rush, "I've wasted my life."

We stayed like this for a moment, both of us watery-eyed and emotional. And then we did what anyone might do in such a situation--we started walking again, a little unsteady, leaning on each other for support, hurrying to catch up with the crowd.

It was a beginning, for me. A glimpse through my own confusion; a light at the end of the tunnel. In that moment, I had the realization that it was not all about me: that my son's diagnosis, or my feelings about it, were not the only things around me.

That even as I felt locked in my own personal drama, there was a whole world spinning, full of people who sometimes felt scared, and sad, and bewildered, just like I did. Finding the perfect words wasn't as important as I might have thought, afterall: what mattered most was when we reached out to each other, and tried to share them.

Next week will be my last "A Little More" column for ParentDish. If you have anything you'd like to ask me about, or anything you'd like to say, please feel free. I'll do my best to answer any of your questions in my final post, and as always, thank you for reading.

(Not everyone should have kids. Click the photo to see the Top 10
Worst Celebrity Dads)

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!

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?

A remarkable thing happened, here in our little valley where nothing much seems to be going on most days, where the grasses have grown tall and the seed-heads keep them heavy and nodding, sleepy, especially in the late afternoons.

By then, the hot summer sun has slipped behind the ridge in back of the house; then, the light filters through the cottonwoods along the little creek and the sounds of the day seem to quiet, distilling to the essence of summer. The wind in the leaves, the occasional cry of a hawk, the faintest trickling of water from the spring.

A mood of tranquility, a spell of summer, until it's broken by the cries of my kids, "Mom! Mom! Mom! Come quick!"

I rush out the front gate, where I'm met by 3 out-of-breath boys. Carter, the oldest, holds in his right hand a butterfly net with a plastic orange handle. His left hand is squeezing the net closed. It's clear they've caught something and I peer through the mesh to see what it might be.

It's a frog.

Their excitement is contagious and my heart begins to race, too. I can't remember the last time I've seen such a thing, maybe never? My girlhood wasn't overly-full of frogs. I think about what a frog might need: a home, some food, rocks, water? Don't they eat flies?

I rush into the house and return with an empty plastic container, the kind that once held an enormous amount of lettuce. We poke holes in the top with a stick and Carter deposits the frog into the new, temporary home.

We form a semi-circle around the plastic container, regarding its contents. Even as we watch him (and I don't know why I think it's a him), he's watching back, 2 deep, brown froggy eyes trained on us.

He's not really green; he's more brown, but whitish underneath. There are large, black spots ringed with black circles on either side of his spine. His legs are thick with muscles and his toes are long and slender. He seems big to me, the size of my fist, or larger.

He tries to hop and the whole plastic container jumps with him. We all leap back. My middle son Avery raises his hands to his face, his mouth forming a wide, startled, Oh! And I have to agree: Oh!

It's amazing, to me, all of it: that we'd be here, the 4 of us, on this airy summer day; that Carter, who I remember so clearly as a tiny baby, has grown into this brave and confident frog-catcher of a boy; that his brothers are next to him, the babies I'd waited for and hoped for and even still, when they finally arrived, I was totally unprepared.

I remember everything--the days spent in and out of the NICU and my one wish, an unspoken prayer that was so simple, yet it seemed impossible: Please let my babies know this world. Please let them grow big enough to have a life outside this hospital air, these beeping machines. Please let them breath real air, let them feel the softness of a purple summer twilight.

Never once did I imagine we'd be here: it was a dream too big to hope for. And since then, there have been so many summer twilights, and I am greedy for them, my prayer now is like a child bumping 2 fists together, which is sign language for more. I want more--I want these days to last forever.

And the frog. Sometime back in the spring, when I was making scrambled eggs one morning, or buttering toast, he was there in the creek. When I fed the wood stove against the cold and the little boys practiced letters and numbers, he was there. When I swept the floor, or loaded the washing machine, or tucked the boys into bed, all the while he was there.

As my boys grew so did this frog, near us, touched by the light from the windows in the evenings, or the rumble of the Red Flyer wagon as we pulled it past the creek. Sharing the same sunshine when the spring turned to summer, and witnessing the same thunderstorms playing across the sky. And I'm reminded of how all things are connected. How even when we sometimes can't see it, wonders exist right outside the front door.

Marky Mark is finally ready to settle down. The former pop star and current mega-hottie actor, fresh off the lukewarm if challenging film The Happening, is preparing to marry his girlfriend after all these years. According to People, Wahlberg and Rhea Durham are ready to make it official and have baby number three on the way! Why? Well, the former head of the Funky Bunch wants his family to be as successful as his movie career. With hits like Oscar-winning The Departed to his credit, Wahlberg may have to put in some daddy overtime!

Wahlberg, 37, says he is finally ready to give up life in the fast lane and work on the things that matter in life, like getting eight hours of sleep at night. Good, luck, Mark! Clearly this man has no idea that parenting entails giving up your sleep preferences until your kid goes to college.

My question is this: Does it take a marriage to make a family? The Jolie-Pitts would say no way, no day (although who knows, they may already secretly be married if rumors are true). Many other celebrity parents have admitted they have no plans or need to marry. What do you think? Is there ever a right time to "settle down" and marry whether or not you already have a family?

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