It starts early. Before the baby is even born, when you're in the throes of baby showers and obstetrician appointments and shopping for things that you've been told you're going to need. You wander around the mall, clutching the list of 'must-haves' (the length of which rivals Santa's naughty or nice list, by the way) and thinking of how badly your back aches and your feet hurt. You think it for the first time -- "It'll be easier once he's born."

Uh huh

Then he's here. Your long-awaited, angelic little miracle has arrived and the fun really begins: You forget how it feels to sleep for four uninterrupted hours. You trade the scent of Chanel or Obsession for baby powder and formula. You change so many diapers that you could do it in your sleep -- and you probably have a time or two. You're running to the OB/GYN for your post-natal appointments and then you're running to the pediatrician for well-baby checks, not to mention every time the baby sneezes more than twice. You're sterilizing bottles and rocking the baby and doing laundry (and how can a baby that doesn't do anything but eat, sleep and poop generate so much laundry, anyway?) and walking the baby and trying to sleep and feeding the baby and, in between all this, you still need to cook, eat, bathe and dress yourself. And the baby.

And you console yourself by thinking: "It'll be easier when he's a little older and can do more for himself."

Little by little it happens. He finds things like his toes (which taste wonderful, apparently) and his fingers (marvelous, wriggling things). He learns to listen to the noises that he's making all by himself and he begins to notice things around him. And he discovers something else, as well. Boredom. It's so much more fun when mommy or daddy entertains him by making faces or shaking rattles or dancing and bringing him things that might keep him happy because he can't tell you what he wants. Dance, mommy, dance.

And you console yourself by thinking: "It'll be easier when he's a little older and can walk and talk and tell me what it is that he needs."

The first words come -- you cover up your hurt when they're not 'mommy' -- but they come. One after another after another. Then he takes that first step; unsure of himself and wobbly, nevertheless the first step is a cause for celebration. You pull out the camera to capture this monumentous event and you puff up with pride, boasting to anyone who will listen. He's walking and he knows sixteen words! That means that you won't have to carry him everywhere. That means that you get to rest your back and your hip. That means that maybe now your arms will match again and you'll get to write a check in the grocery store like a normal person and when he wants a cookie he can say 'cookie'. At least something that sounds like 'cookie'.

That also means that now you're running after him, keeping him away from electrical outlets (those idiotic baby proofing plastic plugs don't work) and out of your purse. He uses his bottle as a club, hitting everything and everyone within reach and learns a new word, 'no', and he practices it constantly. You become adept at learning his escape patterns and learn to snatch him up when he comes around the corner so that you can get the diaper off of him before it sags below his knees and dumps the contents on the floor that you just had to wash because he thought it would be fun to hold his bottle upside down and watch the juice drip out.

And you console yourself by saying: "It'll be easier when he's a little older and is off the bottle and potty-trained."

Then, before you know it, the bottles are gone and, miracle of miracles, you've made it through potty-training. You've applauded and bribed and bargained and prayed and he's gone a week without having an 'accident'. You've made it. He's made it. Life is good.

Until the novelty of the toilet wears off. Until he goes out to play and is so busy in the sandbox and all thoughts of the potty get buried right along with G.I. Joe and his sister's Barbie. He's got to find the hot wheels that are buried in there before he can be bothered to go inside and go to the bathroom and, before you know it, he's got as much sand plastered to the wet patch on the front of his pants as is in the sandbox. Now he needs a bath and you're going to spend the afternoon doing laundry and sweeping.

And you console yourself by saying: "It'll be easier when he's a little older and starts school."

The day finally arrives. The first day of school and he's excited and a little scared. You're excited and a little scared. You take him to school and leave him in the care of his teachers and return to an empty house and it's quiet. You don't know quite how to behave and so you wander around aimlessly, watching the clock and wondering what he's doing and waiting until it's time to go and collect him. Then you finally get used to the silence (not to mention being able to clean a room, leave it and return to find it as neat as you left it); you begin to look forward to it. Kindergarten becomes first grade and you're even getting used to the calls from the school: "He's fallen on the playground and might need a stitch or two, can you come and pick him up?" "He's running a little bit of a temperature so we'll need for you to come and pick him up." "He just threw up on his desk, can you come and pick him up?" "He just had a little accident, could you bring a change of clothes for him -- either that or just pick him up?" The ladies in the front office know you by name. And then there's the homework and field trips and sack lunches and birthday parties and sleepovers and hurt feelings over playground politics.

And you console yourself by saying: "It'll get easier when he's older and in middle school."

Then the registration process begins for middle school. He wants to join band -- musical instruction is good for him. You rent an instrument, which he doesn't practice. He wants to join drama club. A creative outlet which can only benefit him and so you agree to pick him up after rehearsals twice a week. He wants to be on the track team. Physical exercise is healthy. You pick him up after practice three days a week. You forget what your house looks like. Your car and your checkbook, on the other hand, you become intimate with.

And you console yourself by saying: "It'll be easier when he's a little older and can drive himself."

Then he's sixteen and the hormones are raging. You were crushed when you realized that the smudge on his lip wasn't dirt, after all, but was the beginnings of facial hair. The phone is ringing off the hook and you answer it to hear feminine voices asking to speak to your baby. You're even more disturbed when he pulls a booklet from the DMV from his backpack and starts talking about taking the test for his driver's license. You panic when you think of all the skateboards, bicycles and roller blades he's destroyed over the years and the thought of him behind the wheel of a car very nearly sends you over the edge. But you calmly quiz him on the rules of the road and you find an empty parking lot for him to practice technique. And you cross your fingers. Then he passes the test and he's on the road and you worry every second he's out of the house. You jump every time the phone rings and you watch, horrified as seven teenagers spill from his car and invade your house.

And you console yourself by saying: "It'll be easier when he's a little older and is on his own."

Then the day finally comes. He's moved out of the house and into his brand-new apartment with his brand-new wife. You watch the taillights turn the corner as he takes the last load of stuff that he's accumulated over the twenty-three years you carried, sweated, worried, drove and cared for him. Your heart breaks although you keep the smile firmly in place -- it's time. Time for him to spread his wings. Time for him to fly on his own.

It still isn't any easier.