I don't know where it came from, I don't know why, but from one moment to the next I was mourning my unborn babies. My heart felt the painful cramp of loss like it was freshly earned. I felt a wash of trauma sweep over me and I gasped to catch my breath. Great. Right here on vacation in Florida. In Target.

I'm a hoverer. I admit it. I'm coming out of the closet. I'm getting a T-shirt made. In this free-range age, being called a helicopter parent is anything but a compliment. In fact, it seems like supervising your kids and trying to keep them safe and secure is something to be ashamed of. But I'm not. Not at all. Kids are our most precious commodity. We say this, yet we take their well-being so lightly sometimes. The line between fostering independence and ensuring safety is often dangerously blurred today. Yes, in our day we ran around like feral cats till dusk. But these are different times, and I fear that many parents are missing the point and failing to strike the right balance

My boys were keeping score over everything and it drove me crazy. I was officially on strike. This meant I would be doing nothing. If they wanted food, they would have to prepare it, if they needed clean clothes, they would have to wash them. If they needed something at the store, they would have to walk to the store to get it. They would put themselves to bed. There would be no fun outings until the strike was over.

Despite having practiced yoga for many years, I'm constantly surprised at the revelations I have on the mat -- both the smaller "a-ha!" moments to the greater "scream-it-from-the-rooftop!" realizations. Well, I had a revelation today.