This is my life. By 6:00 AM, I have done two loads of laundry and run the dishwasher. I have washed the floors. The clock tick-tocks through my brain. Drive to school, keep the baby occupied while going to the cleaners, the grocery store, make dinner. Try to get the baby to nap. Get the baby up to pick up the kids. After school activities.

An existence reduced to errands. Can everything that must get done eventually be accomplished. Not important things, no peace process to discuss, meetings to make. Entire days when the only other grownups I will see will be in carpool. Days when I can stay in pajamas and no one will know. Just put away, fold, pick up, mix, bake, take out. Cooking, cleaning, schlepping.

I don't want to get bitter. I don't want to get pettyA father who rarely remembers me. A mother who passed away much before I was ready.

I have had six miscarriages, one for every child actually born. The last one, the worst one, only weeks ago, so that it is still so fresh and raw. What could have been. What will not be.

I am no longer a homeowner.

This is my life. We have a nice place to live. My husband has a good job. The pantry is full. The six kids, they are healthy. Happy. In an unbelievably trying economy, I am fortunate enough to be able to stay home. To be the one picking up the kids from school, doling hugs and band aids. I get to go through the day with my two year old at my side. Everything takes longer because she helps. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I am trying to mend fences with a sister I vowed, just a few months ago, to never speak with again.

The cuts are deep. The ego fragile.

G‑d has strong shoulders, the Rabbi says. It is OK to be mad. But the anger is all consuming. It saps all my strength. There is no room left for joy, for the laughter on young children's faces. My children. For light.

I don't want to get bitter. I don't want to get petty.

It is the timeless question. Is the glass half full, or is it just half empty. Do the bad times define a person, or just how we we handle them? G‑d doesn't give one more than one can handle. But what if you don't want to keep carrying it. What if you just want to shake your shoulders and run. What if all you feel like doing is screaming so loud the mountains and trees will quiver and shake from the noise. But no one is listening. How to bring in the light, rise above, be better.

Do the bad times define a person, or just how we we handle them? It is late at night. I think everyone is sleeping. It is time to catch up on e-mails, news, the only few minutes that are only all mine. Just for me. I deserve them, I mumble to no-one. Out of no-where the baby climbs on my lap, squeezing in between me and the monitor. I turn off the computer, frustrated. Again.

She cups my face in her beautiful, tiny hands and kisses me.

This is my life. These are the moments. This is the baby they said I couldn't have.

I thank G‑d for this life.