I hoped I’d be one of those awesome moms that was super-conscious, sensitive and mindful, until I realized I was becoming one of those “literary” moms. You know, the moms that figure prominently into creative people’s memoirs. As in, ‘my mother was creative, interesting and volatile, and in and out of therapy and hospitals while I was young. I love the sense of adventure she instilled, but never knew the toll mental illness would exact until I was in my teens.’

Now, I like to think there is a third option that leaves my kids a larger life, without anyone taking it on the chin.