It begins the minute we start to go up the stairs, often with reluctant young ones who are not eager to say goodbye to their adventurous day. We follow a familiar pattern of baths, teeth cleaning, pajamas, bedtime stories, prayers, kisses goodnight and turning out the light. Yet rather than a rapid departure at this juncture, Mom and Dad (alternating children and evenings) remain at the edge of the bed while our little ones start to doze. It is during this time that we have our most profound moments with our children.

Last night, my eight-year-old daughter Erin inquired about her grandfather who had passed away last year. "Mom, will Pops keep growing while he is in heaven?" Unsure of how to respond, I admitted that I wasn't sure about how those things worked in heaven.

Several weeks ago the voice of my six-year-old son Dillon softly penetrated the darkness. "Mom, who will take care of us if you die?" I tried to assure him that my death was very unlikely; but, I told him, if I were to die, his dad, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends would take good care of him... and I would always be watching him from heaven. He seemed content with this response, but added, "Just be careful."

At this time of day, kisses are tender, spontaneous and free-flowing, as sometimes is not the case during the day. Erin will reach out in the night with arms and lips, kissing me and confessing, "I love you, Mom!" Dillon's "I just adore you, Mom," erases every vestige of the struggles we might have encountered earlier in the day.

Even when they were babies, the moments I shared with them at night were magical. I remember peering into the crib while they slept, thinking how content, comfy and downright adorable they looked. I used to wish that I could crawl right in next to them and wrap them up in a big hug. Recently, I reminded Dillon of this, while pointing out the convenience of his big double bed. "Now," I explained, "I can reach right in and give you a big squeeze!"

Kudos to Jane Foley Bell for her article "Immeasurable Grief." My son and firstborn died in June 1997 at only four-and-a-half months of age. My grief is still overwhelming even though I now have a beautiful three-month-old baby girl, Anna. Eddie fought an uphill battle his whole life with heart problems and died after open-heart surgery.

The suggestions Jane gives are wonderful. I wish I could have distributed the list to all of my friends and family with the news of his death so they would know how to comfort us and so that others would know that they also needed comforting. I especially liked Jane's suggestions to take action. Memorial gifts helped to eternalize my son's existence. And how thoughtful of friends who called and asked, "Can I mow your lawn or bring you a meal?" Jane is right--we didn't know how to ask for help in the midst of our grief. We couldn't even verbalize our needs, but we knew we needed help.

Thank you for printing such a helpful article about something that is so difficult to talk about.

The Other Side of the "Good Baby"

I just had to write in response to your web article "The Pumpkin Baby." God is so wise as to know what order to send children.

My first child was indeed a pumpkin baby: wonderful, perfect, a delight. She didn't need me a whole lot and went happily to anyone (I used to be afraid a stranger would take her and she would not protest). Motherhood was so new and alien to me at that time that all of this was a very good thing. My mother warned me never to have another child. 

I really love your publication; it is balm to a weary soul. I want to emphasize how refreshing it is to have part-time workers touted as at-home mothers. Even though, by some interpretations, I have just about always been a working mother, my kids have always been first. It is really a comfort to me to have a publication like WH that sees it that way too.

I would like to applaud Marie Drummond for "The Pumpkin Baby" (February 1999). I loved reading the article and giggled until tears ran down my cheeks because it sounded like she was writing about me and my first child. As of yet, she remains an only child, but I too have found myself asking, "What if the next one is like Savannah?" Scary thought. Thanks for pointing out the other side of the issue--that it is also hard to find a way to love a "pumpkin baby" for his or her uniqueness. Thanks for a wonderful article.

Thank you for the recent article by Pauline A. Connole on fathers and the fatherhood resources (February 1999). I now call my husband "working dad" every chance I get. As a matter of fact, your article reminded me of what he does for our grown family and I thanked him, which he greatly appreciated.

I have been disturbed recently to learn of men asking their wives to go back to work to help out with the expenses because the husbands no longer want to carry the load. What I've seen is hardworking men who have been pressured to do more at home with housework, raising the kids and giving mom a break. The men, in turn, want help paying the bills. I have mentioned this to some younger moms who complain that dad is not there enough for them, reminding them that dad can't do it all and that the stress out there is considerable.

I am so blessed to have a husband who would have supported my decision to work if that was what I wanted, but who also was willing to provide the means to a clean, orderly home, creative meals, counseling for our children and time to care for others in need. I only hope I can give him the quality he so richly earns.

My husband Brian is a working dad and has altered his workweek to be home three afternoons a week with our son Jacob (seven months). I know that Brian's time is precious, but he does it faithfully every week. He's told me that he doesn't regret it, but enjoys spending that time with Jacob. I'm very proud of my husband for making that commitment, and I'd like to encourage and applaud the many fathers who are "there every day to love and support their families." Keep up the good work!