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It's amazing how an impulsive burst of creativity from a new mom in the throes of maternal infatuation can transcend time and become a calming antidote to the angst of coping with the stubbornness of a strong-willed teenager.

As a doting first-time mother cooing over her infant daughter, I was inspired every day by the power of my devotion to this amazing human being that I had created. The sky was the limit, the world was awaiting her and my dreams for my child had no bounds. It was easy for me to put pen to paper and allow myself to express all that I felt. My journal was therapeutic and liberating. Perhaps I would show it to my children one day.

My musings were never published and my journal was kept private, but I took great comfort in being able to express myself in a creative way. Then life took over, the challenging routine of raising a family kicked in and the busy years marched on.

Fast-forward 18 years...

2 kids, a couple of moves and several jobs later I find myself negotiating the slippery slope between parental control and motherly love. It's a wild ride, rife with satisfaction and frustration. In a fit of seasonal purging and after a frustrating attempt to impress the importance of family communication upon my daughters, my autumn cleaning unearthed that faded diary that had held all the secrets that only a mother could know. Those well-worn pages that recounted so many hours of my life were nestled beneath layers of precious mementos that had not been touched in a years

An immediate rush of emotion came over me as I turned it in my hands. Baby">All the determination, fortitude and sense of purpose that had kept me going for those trying first years radiated from the pages. I found myself sitting crossed legged on the floor pouring over the entries, as waves of memories bombarded my senses. The trepidation, the sleeplessness, the uncertainty of a first-time mom - they were all there - in total honesty - stripped bare of any pretense.

Then my eyes fell on a few lines scribbled at the bottom of a page. It seemed to have been written almost as an afterthought at the end of a very long day.

My child'
In the palm of your trusting hand
You bear the torch.

You are my light of day'
You are my gift to the world.

Suddenly the self-doubt that creeps into the psyche of every parent trying to raise a teenager fell away. "Had I done all that I could?" Of course I had! The proof was all there, right before my eyes, in painstaking detail. My intention had always been clear; my sentiment was never less than resolute. Gone was the doubt about the decisions I had made along the way. I knew that the underlying motive for all of my choices was an earnest one. I was reminded of the unconditional love that we showered upon both of our children every day and I did not question how much of myself I put into raising caring, productive human beings. There were a few faults along the way, but a solid foundation was laid. The cement had set and, ultimately, there was nothing to worry about. I had, along with my husband, put the best of what we are into our daughters. Our devotion and our love were unconditional. The only thing left to do was continue to allow them to blossom and to encourage them to make their mark on the world.