One of the best parts of being a parent is the ability to relive childhood. Sometimes I think the things I do—the corn mazes, the snow angels, the apple picking—are more for my benefit than either of my kids’.

But we still dig it.

Last weekend we had a great snowfall in Southern Maine and “let’s let Sam play in the snow” quickly turned into “let’s build the biggest, best, most spectacular snowman this country has ever seen!!!”

With the enthusiasm of 10,000 toddlers, my husband and I rolled up more than 400 pounds of snow (a figure I know because my dorky husband later calculated it using Excel). We built ramps and “loading docks” in order to complete our 6’5” snowman. He was quite a site.

While my husband put the finishing touches on the “man,” our daughter just stared:

Once he was complete, she smiled and then played with the dog:

And while the whole thing may have been underwhelming for her, we did end up with a great holiday card out of the experience.

Sasha Brown-Worsham is a freelance writer whose monthly column runs online at The Family Groove. Her work has appeared in Pregnancy, Runner's World, Self and many other publications. She lives in Boston with her husband, daughter, son (and a cat and dog).

I have a confession: I loathe the holidays. Feel free to take me off your card list.

This bad mood starts to set in right about now. The air shifts from crisp to downright cold, three out of six of my favorite radio stations turn to an all Christmas music format and this Mama gets her Grinch on.

I am the last one most people suspect of this sentiment as I am the sappy sort who plans Halloween years in advance, cries at refrigerator commercials and may be the only person on the planet who has never referred to Valentine’s Day as a “Hallmark Holiday (um, hello, holiday dedicate to chocolate and sex? Me likey.)

But Christmas? Not so much. Something about the cloying music, the fake cheer and the rampant materialism make me want to take to my bed, which is where I am currently lying. My official story is a stomach flu/cold combo, but unofficially? I have to rest up to take on this season, lest I snap at the poor salespeople wishing me a “happy holiday” and fantasize about knocking egg nog from the hands of office party revelers.

I do not do Santa, reindeer, holiday outfits, Christmas carols, gift exchanges, gingerbread houses, trees, cookie baking, ornaments or egg nog. I play a better Scrooge than Bill Murray.

I hate this part of myself. Each year I hope it will be different and yet each year it creeps in again like some parasitic vine growing over the period between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, rendering me helpless. I am perhaps the only person in the country who wakes up on January 2 and says, THANK G-D (although suicide statistics from the time around the holidays tell me I am not alone in my loathing).

But this year I have two small reasons to resurrect my latent holiday spirit. Far be it from me to tell them how to feel. Later we can hate the holidays together, but for now, I will try to give them “the magic of the season” or whatever weird slogan the discount conglomerate is currently espousing.

Since I don’t want to overwhelm myself with huge projects like buying a tree, I am taking baby steps alongside my babies. We will begin with baking. I have agreed to exchange small ($20) gifts with my husband, buy each of my children small ornaments and even make a gingerbread house (from a kit. Remember: baby steps).

So throw the Yule log on the fire or some such thing. This Scrooge is baby stepping towards seeing the (multi-colored strands of) light.

Sasha Brown-Worsham is a freelance writer whose monthly column runs online at The Family Groove. Her work has appeared in Pregnancy, Runner's World, Self and many other publications. She lives in Boston with her husband, daughter, son (and a cat and dog).

Last night, my son woke up every hour on the hour.

A few weeks ago (on Halloween) my husband and I watched the movie It’s Alive—the tale of a mutated baby that serially kills his way through Los Angeles--and last night? I was sure our littlest one was going for a remake.

Despite this (and maybe because it gave me plenty of time to think) I was profoundly grateful. He is a healthy, robust, hungry boy and I am so thankful he came into my life this year.

So, this year on thanksgiving I am not thinking of sleepless nights or the coming winter I fear will be spent languishing indoors, I am thinking of my children and the fun we will continue to have together and all the richness they have brought into my life.

This year, I am most grateful for this:

My family.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Lately it seems like every mother I know is having issues with her husband and shared responsibility.

Even I, who have always been entirely 50/50 with my husband have seen some big changes since our son was born.

With our daughter, my husband was an equal partner--I swear he changed more of her diapers than I will change in a lifetime. But our son loves his mommy and refuses bottles and cries when I am away and that seems to be just fine with his poppy who is busier than ever with our toddler and with work.

I understand, of course. He is finishing his PhD, working full time and raising two children. Plus, little Alan seems to hate everyone but me. But there are limits and at 4:30 in the morning when I have been up with Sir Nurse A Lot for two hours, I need help from the man of the house.

It seems the newborn phase is very hard for men. I can only speak for my own guy, but it seems that my loves-to-fix-it-always-finds-a-solution engineer husband is stumped when it comes to our little one and he finds that infuriating.

The first few months involve little reward and much work—diapering, re-diapering, bathing, feeding, dressing, undressing and soothing, lather, rinse and repeat. The process is tiring even for the best of us, but for the husbands of nursing moms, it is even more difficult because they get all of the work with very little of the hormonal cocktail reward that comes via nursing eight times a day.

New motherhood is an initiation into a new kind of womanhood, a shared bond with generations of women before us. Sometimes it is easy to leave the men behind, but they have to help, even when they are begging to be left behind. Raising a baby is hard work and in families with two parents, both need to be on board the childcare train.

Shared responsibility looks different in every family. In mine it means we share the 2 a.m. wake-ups and poopy diapers. It means I trust him to dress our daughter and try not to cringe when he puts her in orange pants and a pink top. He is her father and he is just as smart as I am when it comes to parenting and if he thinks that matches, fine (even if it doesn’t).

For the dads, this means sometimes feeling useless, but always persevering. The rewards will come. Case in point: my 22-month-old daughter would choose her dad over me any day of the week.

Consider the early diapering, swaddling, bouncing and shushing the little investments that lead to the big pay out. Even in this bad economy, there are opportunities for windfalls.

Sasha Brown-Worsham is a freelance writer whose monthly column runs online at The Family Groove. Her work has appeared in Pregnancy, Runner's World, Self and many other publications. She lives in Boston with her husband, daughter, son (and a cat and dog).

When I was pregnant with my daughter back in late 2006, I heard about an event so exciting, it took me two years to get there. Baby Loves Disco.

The premise is simple—50 parents who miss their club-going days invade a club during daylight hours, their youngsters in tow. Martinis, beer and wine are all available, as are goldfish/animal crackers, nutrigrain bars and juice boxes.

For the parents, there are chair massages and eyebrow waxing and for the kids, there is a rockin’ dance floor with a DJ spinning hits from the 70’s (think: “Well, I’d like to know where you got the notion…”)

The theme was PJ party, so my kid sported her fleece-y pajamas, but I could not resist breaking out her best disco shoes:

At first she was afraid…

My daughter is always a little nervous when she first enters a social situation and this one was no different. She surfed the perimeter, hanging out on the couches (lord knows what they had been used for the previous night by the 21+ crowd that usually frequents the place).

Dig it the Dancing Queen…

But by the end (thanks to a little “liquid courage,” aka watered-down grape juice) she was channeling Abba, indeed:

Shake, Shake, Shake…

By the end, sister was having a ball. We parents have to find the fun where we can and if a disco ball, bubble blower, noise-makers, 30 balloons and 5 dozen groove shakin’ toddlers can’t make you smile on a freezing cold Sunday, then I can’t imagine anything would.

Here is my happy (and exhausted) toddler who did not stop ‘till she’d had enough:

Sasha Brown-Worsham is a freelance writer whose monthly column runs online at The Family Groove. Her work has appeared in Pregnancy, Runner's World, Self and many other publications. She lives in Boston with her husband, daughter, son (and a cat and dog).

Alan is a pretty good sleeper. We put him down around 7:30 and he sleeps until 3:30, wakes, eats and sleeps until 5:30. Then he sleeps again after breakfast until 10 or 11.

The problem?

My husband and I go to bed around 11, so our sleep is interrupted four hours later. Then our toddler daughter wakes around 7, so I am averaging about six hours of broken sleep a night. And I am someone who needs about eight to nine hours to function.

This long-term (3 months, 2 weeks and 5 days to be exact) sleep deprivation is no joke. In the past few weeks I have locked my keys in the house, sent numerous attachment-less emails, lost countless items, had to go to the grocery store 12 times to get everything I need because I keep forgetting, made coffee without the filter so I ended up with a pot of hot water and forgotten to add my tip to a receipt for my last pedicure (***see results below). Oops.

These are all small things, but it feels like a matter of time until something huge happens. And since my job is to be creative in text and I can barely form a sentence, this is kind of an issue.

What’s a gal to do?

I make lists. I keep an extra set of house keys on my person for when I lock my main set in the house. I try to laugh. Because really I am doing the best I can. The past few months have taught me that no mom should be expected to function at peak level until she is at least six months postpartum. And even that is pushing it.

I am just glad I do not have any interviews with Katie Couric scheduled in my first few postpartum months. I suggest all new moms forgive themselves a few slips, at least until their brain function returns—some time around when the last child ships off to college.

***The results of a pedicure on very little sleep:

Sasha Brown-Worsham is a freelance writer whose monthly column runs online at The Family Groove. Her work has appeared in Pregnancy, Runner's World, Self and many other publications. She lives in Boston with her husband, daughter, son (and a cat and dog).

Searching for the right preschool is complicated. And don’t think just because your baby is still in utero that you are off the hook.

Oh no.

I was told last night (on my first official pre-school tour for my older daughter Sam who is 21 months) that not only am I behind for her (“You should have applied in spring of 2007**,” the appalled teacher told me), but I am also behind for “him” (gesturing towards my sleeping three-month-old who has yet to learn that those fabulous hands he is sporting actually belong to him).

***Spring of 2007. Note my future scholar’s amazing capacity for drool. Does this look like a child that needs to be placed in pre-school or a Boppy pillow?

I felt like I was through the looking glass. And I know this is not unique to Boston. All major cities—New York (duh), Washington DC, San Francisco, LA—are all dealing with the same stuff.

Luckily we have options. This preschool costs $15,000 a year for two half days a week (and summers off). It is one of the cheaper ones.

“I think our money might be better spent in other areas,” my husband told me judiciously last night. I have to agree. But how does one find a pre-school that both fosters the kind of creative environment I want for my children while also not costing as much as my mortgage?

The answer? A co-op.

My next move is to start examining the local preschool co-ops. But I can’t believe I am only 21-months into the whole parenting game and I am already feeling like a delinquent in my child’s education.

My daughter is a smart girl—she is frighteningly close to reading, knows all of her letters and colors on sight and can spend hours poring through her books. I refuse to believe that I have set her back by not planning for college before she was born.

Stay tuned.

Sasha Brown-Worsham is a freelance writer whose monthly column runs online at The Family Groove. Her work has appeared in Pregnancy, Runner's World, Self and many other publications. She lives in Boston with her husband, daughter, son (and a cat and dog).

There are many things I would like to spend money on—a new wardrobe (for when I fit back into my old sizes), new shoes (for the time when I don’t) and cooking/cleaning help from now until eternity. But one thing I will not spend money on is a physical trainer.

I am not knocking the profession. I know that many people get their butts kicked regularly by their trainer who can design a specific workout plan for them. If I had the money, I would certainly hire one. But I have a number of other things I would prefer to spend that money on first. So the workouts? They are all up to me.

I am lucky.

I have tremendous amounts of motivation when it comes to working out. No one has to force me to go to the gym—I am already there. I actually like getting up at 5 a.m. and completing a run before the rest of the world is even awake. I am crazy like that.

Running, specifically, and working out in general give me a sense of control. Every day I do this for myself, something I can count on even when the rest of my day feels like it is spiraling. I sometimes wish there was a national mandate for us all to work out six times a week. I swear there would be less crime.

So, how does a trainerless mom (especially one who is nursing a newborn) find the time to work out?

Some tips:

1.) Work out videos (good ones include the 10-minute solutions DVDs--I heart Suzanne Bowen’s pilates DVD and doing it in 10 minute increments allows you to get a full workout without the time commitment on crazy days. I also love Baron Baptiste’s Yoga DVDs; Denise Austin’s core workouts and Mom and Baby pilates with Jennifer Gianni.)

2.) Four-mile run/walks (40-60 minutes, depending on pace) before or after work—this workout takes less time than hauling to the gym and it is nice to get fresh air. It will not take you away from your newborn so long to necessitate a bottle either if you time it right.

3.) 10-minute circuit training sessions around the house with some stretchy bands for resistance, light handweights and jumping jacks for cardio.

4.) Check out options for new moms—Mom and Baby Yoga; Stroller aerobics; Gym Babysitting.

Feel free to add your ideas if you have them.

Sasha Brown-Worsham is a freelance writer whose monthly column runs online at The Family Groove. Her work has appeared in Pregnancy, Runner's World, Self and many other publications. She lives in Boston with her husband, daughter, son (and a cat and dog).

So many mothers I know are unhappy. It’s no wonder. Much as I love being a mother and adore my children, the monotony and Sisyphean nature of the work can often make even the most well grounded mama want to bury her head and sob.

But not me (at least not most days) because I ascribe to the theory of three.

I believe that a person is only built to handle three big things at once in their life. Once you start adding to the list—laundry, cleaning, cooking AND a playdate—then you start to lose it, feel guilty, get unhappy and then complain. And then the mommy friends who have the fun, drinking playdates no longer call and you get stuck with the whiny, judgmental moms whose children bite.

In the interest of your future social life, I will share my personal road to happiness.

Step One: Identify your Three.

In my case, I can focus on working out, writing and my family (this includes alone time with the hubs, museum going with the babies and all diapering, nursing and cuddling. It does NOT include laundry, cleaning up when toddler daughter decides to squirt ketchup on the floor or laundry—it bears repeating)

Step Two: Learn to ignore the messes that accumulate on household surfaces:

Step Three: Order take out five nights a week.

Step Four: Outsource all tasks you are not good at (in my case, cleaning)

If you follow all of these rules to the letter, you will find yourself hanging out with all the cool kids and spending more time discoing and less time whining. And if the bad economy means outsourcing is not a possibility, try to convince your husband that one of his big three is laundry. Sometimes this even works.

Sasha Brown-Worsham is a freelance writer whose monthly column runs online at The Family Groove. Her work has appeared in Pregnancy, Runner's World, Self and many other publications. She lives in Boston with her husband, daughter, son (and a cat and dog).

Since having my first child at 29, I have often wondered what the right age is to become a mother.

According to the National Center for Health Statistics, the average age of a woman in the US having her first child is 25, but in my neck of the woods (Boston), it often seems more like 40.

Women go to school for years, then they start their career, then they get married and then they get around to babymaking. This means that a lot of moms I meet are more than a decade older than me and most of them women my age remain childless.

And while I always enjoy meeting any mother, I am often lonely for mommy friends my own age and am envious of those my age who can still see movies whenever they want, stay up all night, sleep all day and travel to the far ends of the earth.

Then again, both of my children are strong and healthy (knock wood) and my pregnancies were easier to achieve. And while I know that women of any age can experience fertility issues, I avoided any of the ones related to age by having my babies young.

It seems I am somewhere in the middle. I grew up in Ohio where many women I know had children at 20 and 21, so at my age, they have freedom I can scarcely imagine with little ones the ages of mine. Plus, they will have empty nests in their early forties.

Those who waited even longer than me have more financial stability than we do, they live in bigger houses and generally can offer their young children more, but they lack the energy of younger parents. I am struggling with the sleep deprivation and keeping up with my dynamic toddler, so I cannot imagine how I would do it a decade from now.

So what is the “right” age? Is there one?

Sasha Brown-Worsham is a freelance writer whose monthly column runs online at The Family Groove. Her work has appeared in Pregnancy, Runner's World, Self and many other publications. She lives in Boston with her husband, daughter, son (and a cat and dog).