I wanted to create a community, maybe give hope to infertile couples, and I wanted to mess around with photos too. But mostly I needed to tell stories and get back to daily writing without taking a full-time job (and bankrupting us with childcare costs to do it).

I'd been thinking of it for ages, really, and I wasted a fair amount of time trying to come up with my "hook."  I didn't know much about blogs, admittedly. I thought I needed a gimmick like that woman from "Julie and Julia." Or a talent. Or a cause.  

I hemmed and hawed for months before I realized my procrastination was fueled by fear. 

I misplaced my brain sometime between the birth of my first and fourth child. And I felt like my voice-  the part of me that sings when I tune out the noise and weave words into stories - was buried beneath teetering mounds of unfolded laundry, shitty diapers, crusty dishes and toys. 

I told myself I wouldn't have anything to write about, certainly nothing anyone wants to read.

Then I had an unexpected conversation with a high school classmate I hadn't seen in 20 years and never knew well. Soo Young Lee is a writer herself now, an artist and mother and ultimately, my inspiration to return to words.

In the corner of a dark, rowdy bar, we talked intimately about writing and raising babies and the struggle to do both. It was the first time in a long time that I felt passionate when I spoke. I went home with a love renewed and a voice unearthed. 

This blog launched 27 days later. 

And thank God for that. This humble little spot of the web read by friends and family, friends of friends and lately, a smattering of strangers too, reconnected me with me. 

Weeks after that first post, I realized I was thinking again. Not just about what to make for dinner or how to cross the street with four kids without getting mown down by impatient drivers. I was lingering on language and emotions now, friendships, books and politics. Making connections and considering broad views. I wasn't just solving crises, I was thinking "what if."

I didn't feel like a mom zombie anymore. I felt "engaged." With my own life and the life around me. 

I cannot overstate how transformative this simple spot has been. 

In the last year, I went through menopause and thought I was losing my mind. Writing about the internal tumult anchored me. I watched my oldest, my soulmate in many regards, go off to school and I worked through the loss over a series of essays. 

I recall reading once that people blog for different reasons - some to work their shit out. Oh, man, did I work some shit out. 

I also got a job offer, was asked to collaborate on a book, traveled to New York City, made new friends, discovered kick-ass photographers and found a treasure trove of heart-stopping, hilarious, inspirational writing. 

It's been an exhilarating start of a journey that I hope takes me to new cities, stokes new emotions and kinship, brings unexpected blessings and liberates new voices. 

Thank you so much for reading along with me, for your encouragement and kind words. I hear from you in the comments, on the sidewalk, at the park, in personal e-mails. And I love every single encounter. 

While I consider the blog a special place of my own, I envision it less as a bedroom for one than a farm table for many. I hope that in the coming year, I can foster more of a sense of community in the comments.  So that when you come here, you don't just hear my story but her's and her's and his and their's. 

Before I look ahead, though, I must stop now and say "Happy Birthday, blog" and a gigantic, heartfelt "Thank you" to my high school friend, Soo, without whom there wouldn't be a birthday to toast. Soo, I owe you the moon.  And my mind. 

So, already the day is off to a good start. 

Last year, I experienced a brutal parenting fail when I let time slip by in complete ignorance of his momentous first birthday. Esme just started kindergarten and we were overwhelmed with the new schedule, the early wake-up, the emotional drama of the transition.

It was nearly an hour before the light went on. DING! Birthday boy!

No such delay today. I rubbed my face, pulled on a pair of pants and found my baby at the head of the dining room table shoving a giant, sloppy spoonful of yogurt in his mouth and down his pajama top. I tickled behind his ears and sang birthday wishes. Esme giggled. 

"How old are you today?" I asked. 

"For," he said, shoving his hand at me, all five fingers raised. 

Not so fast, young man. It's all rolling too quickly as it is. 

Let's celebrate 2 - the year you learn to put on your shoes, pull up your pants, use the potty, string together sentences, sort shapes, sing the ABCs and tell your Mama "I love you." Because, boy, do I love you!

Me: "Did you fall off your bike again?"

Kent: "No, I ran into a fence."

Laughter ensues on my part.

Me: "See, that's why I won't let you drive the car."

He's a man of infinite hugs but few words. 

These days, he prefers "Osh" to describe the pillow, the wall, the chair, the lamp, his sisters, the plate, the EVERYTHING. His universal word used to be "Ish," something he yelled so often and so insistently that my mother turned it into his nickname. 

I exaggerate, of course, but not much. He can say "Mama," "Papa," "Uma" and more than 30 other words in some form or fashion that the family understands. But even I need a few minutes on occasion to decipher his babbling which usually results in an exasperating conversation that unfolds thusly:

T: "Ba."

Me: "Ball?"

T: "Ba." 

Me: "Block?"

T: "BA!" Points his finger. Shakes his head. Screams with his eyes "You're an idiot, Mama."

Me: "Oh? Boat?!"

T: "Yeah." Smiles. Runs off to bear hug a sibling.

Having watched four children grow from babies to toddlers and beyond, I'm well aware children hit milestones at wildly different times. Desmond recited Beatrix Potter story lines and strung together sentences at 18 months while Josephine's vocabulary consisted of fewer than a dozen words. On the other hand, she could run, climb and use a spoon light years before her twin brother. 

In other words, I recognize Tobias is a late talker but I haven't worked myself into an anxious frenzy. His doctor mentioned at his 18-month check-up that she could send him for hearing tests if his speech delay lingers, and I planned to ask for the referral at his two-year appointment. 

I also thought it was the perfect question to pose to the ParentsAsk experts. I'm especially glad I did because, well, watch for yourself.

First, don't you love the way Tobias says "poop?" 

Second, fantastic tips, no? I've never been one to use baby talk and prefer, instead, to speak to the children like little adults, so the idea of over exaggerating the last sound is new to me. I especially love it when combined with the brilliant idea of reinforcing the sound with a tactile cue. 

I have tried tying rewards to successful imitation but Tobias is a stubborn son of a gun. I got lots of footage of him flat out refusing to imitate my speech. It's too bad for you that it wasn't included because it's a hilarious battle of wills. So, I appreciate the expert's idea that I can try the imitation several times, then abandon the effort if Tobias gets frustrated.  Sound, doable advice that we're already implementing.

Me: "Say 'milk.'"

T: "NO!"

Me: "You can't have your milk until you say 'milk.'"

T: "NO!"

Me: "Milk."

T: Silence.

Me: Give the milk cup to him.

T: Walks away to bear hug a sibling.

Again, apologies for the size constraints on my web page. They constrict the ParentsAsk video and cut off the text box. I'm working on a redesign. Well, in my head anyway.

Family Camp - The Movie from Dana Damico on Vimeo.

The kids want to live there and I definitely didn't want to leave. It's that awesome. 

The bell tolls a rhythm to our day of simplicity and sustenance and sound. 

It signals when to wake and when the day's entertainment ends. It calls families to eat, to play, to swim and rest. Children race to clang the bell and gripe when they miss the chance. "I've been here three years and only got to ring it once," snorted one boy, hot with indignation and bruised pride.

The bell rings again, regardless of who pulls the ropes. 

We spent nearly an hour smacking the ball across the concrete floor. Just the two of us. 

It sounds simple enough, a milk toast type of playtime with a child except it's the type of thing that rarely happens in large families. Oh, I guess there are uber-families who schedule one-on-one adventures with Mom or Dad, and my hat's off to them, but we're not part of their club. Never will be.

Kent and I can barely keep pace with the family dynamic as it is. We tread water day to day and trade high-fives when the children go to bed with clean bottoms and teeth. 

We barely make dates for each other, let alone the children. 

We could carve out time on the weekends, I suppose. But that's also the only time we get to see each other as a full family. 

A few weeks ago, Kent did the unthinkable and took Esme to a football game. When Josephine and Desmond realized they weren't going along, they let loose with such terrible wails and sobs you'd think their lovies had been pried from their hands and tossed in a bonfire. 

I'm fairly certain the last time I took Desmond out - not counting the odd walk for a cookie or custard cone - was on a shopping trip two years ago at Topsail Island. He sat in the cart and gabbed about everything he saw. I remember being amazed by the transformation of his personality away from the pack. 

The same was true yesterday. Desmond can be the most, shall we say, "challenging" of the four. He's quick to pester, whine and throw punches when he doesn't get the attention he demands (and, of course, deserves). But on his own, he lets go of the intensity. He relaxes. He smiles more. He laughs. 

Maybe, I do all of those things more too. 

And so, when Kent took Tobias to the cabin for a shower, and Josephine and Esme went off with big kids on a scavenger hunt, Desmond asked to play floor hockey. He never played before but he picked it up quickly and pretty soon we were running around and laughing, shooting the ball into the bathroom and past the older boys. 

I've waterskied this week, went swimming by myself and flipped off the lake diving board but I have to say, my favorite time at family camp so far has been that single hour alone with my boy.

But I do like sleeping on a cot with wool blankets, a soft pillow and screen windows that let in the cool breeze and block meddlesome bugs. The sound of the wind in the trees and a soft drizzle on the roof puts me directly into a deep, blissful sleep until...

pitter patter pitter patter. 

I stirred a little yesterday when I heard it and tried to form thoughts through a dreamy fog. But then the wind and drizzle and I closed my eyes and...

pitter patter pitter patter.

It was unmistakable and demanded attention. I get out of bed and saw Tobias napping solidly. The others were busy with the afternoon activities: building fairy houses deep in the forest and making clay animals, 

I looked out a nearby window and decided it was just the pitter patter of little girl flip flops hurrying to the bathrooms. So, back to sleep. 

PITTER PATTER PITTER PATTER PITTER PATTER!

You see where this is going.

I bolt upright. The pitter patter is not flip flops unless a five-year-old girl is playing hop scotch beneath the dresser at the top of my bed. 

I poked my nose under. HE poked his nose out. 

"AH!" I screamed. HE ran away. 

Pitter patter pitter patter pitter patter pitter patter pitter patter... all the way down the length of our very long cabin, streaking past Tobias' crib and out the back of the place. Or through one of the gaping holes in the side. I'm sure HE didn't discriminate. 

And by HE, I think I mean a chipmunk. They're as prevalent here as squirrels and lucky for them, they're so goddam adorable because you'd think HE'd would have had me paralyzed with fear like the mice in our house. But, oddly, no.

I didn't fall back to sleep, though, because I didn't lose my mind entirely. Kent came back to the cabin to relieve me of nap duty and I scampered off through the woods in search of fairy huts. 

Hours later, I realized what our cabin guest was after when I found a packet of cocoa, torn asunder, its contents spilled across the wood floor beneath my dresser. It reminded me of the squirrels that used to break into my college apartment to steal Grape Nuts. But, like the tent, that's another story entirely. 

Once at the hotel, we fell asleep then woke abruptly 20 minutes later to the loud, angry barks of a frightened dog locked alone in a hotel room. He barked ALL NIGHT LONG. Or at least until 4 a.m. when I finally fell asleep or he passed out from misery.

On Day 2 of our travels north, we drove through a Nor'easter that soaked Connecticut, spent a few blissfully drama-free moments in Massachusetts then hit apocalyptic traffic again in Maine. 

Seriously, people, I haven't encountered back-ups that gnarly on the Beltway. I didn't even know that many people lived in Maine. 

The good news: I ate dinner next to a lake and fell asleep in a cabin in the woods with rain falling in the trees. It sounded like fire crackling in a wood stove, Josephine said. 

I plan to do yoga this morning and waterski this afternoon. And I don't have to get back in the car and drive with the rest of humanity for another six days. 

While I have Internet access, the connection is slow and I'm not going to fritter away my precious time here trying to upload bulky photos. Rest assured, I'll share gobs of photos once out of the woods.