I read a quote years ago by Renita Weems, “I cannot forget my mother. Though she was not as sturdy as others, she is my bridge. When I needed to get across, she steadied herself long enough for me to run across safely.” What bridge, I thought? How jealous that quote made me feel. I have had many years of psychotherapy and don’t know that I will ever understand the unanswerable “whys” of my childhood. I can only guess it was a mixture of my mother’s past abuse and a cocktail of untreated emotional and psychological problems. Suffice it to say that I was significantly abused and though few visible scars remain there are deeply embedded memories I have yet to drive away. In all the years of my mother’s instability, not once did I feel it was safe to run across. I leapt blindly on my own.

I felt the departure of my oldest son, Jasper, when he left for college, like the breaking of a bone. I had been under the illusion that his going away to college would be the same as his going to camp or traveling alone to Europe; his independence had long been tested and proven, as had mine. I would have more time to concentrate on my painting and my life, having been a parent since I was 25 years old. This was supposed to be a normal and healthy separation, the next step toward adulthood for Jasper. I actually felt confused when mothers who had been through this experience told me about the sadness they had felt as their children had left home.

I broke Jasper's collarbone when he was born, his ten pound baby body had been that reckless in its desire to escape. That was twenty years ago. Last year, I was the one who broke, when we deposited him, God knows why, at a college across the country. Grief found me, I wasn't looking for it. In the plane on the way home, I took the window seat and hid behind my husband as I leaned against the glass and looked down at the miles of arid hills now lying between me and Jasper. I sobbed, at first quietly, and then uncontrollably, wracked with the useless effort of trying not to cry. It seemed as if some hidden enemy was unwinding a panorama of hills on an endless scroll, laughing as I looked down with disbelief at the expanse of barren territory. From the sky I pictured myself miniaturized and alone, walking feverishly for days, futilely searching for my child in an unrecognizable, gigantic landscape. I don't know why this split between us felt as serious and as physical as when we were first ripped asunder, at his birth. That had been a biological necessity , but now I had left him, by choice, 1000 miles away.

Editor's note: China Martens is the author of The Future Generation: Zine-book for Subculture Parents, Kids, Friends & Others (Atomic Book Company, March 2007). Jessica Mills is the author of My Mother Wears Combat Boots (AK PRESS, November 2007). They're both great books, go check them out!

Jessica Mills is a partnered mother of two children, ages 7 and 1. She is also an activist, artist, a touring musician (who plays saxophone with Citizen Fish), and a first time book author. I've been reading her column of the same name in Maximumrocknroll (MRR) for years. We've traded zines, emails, and crossed virtual paths as "mama-writers" (although not in person yet, but will soon!). In 2007, both of us came out with our first books on independent, small presses.

I called her on the phone to chat about the process of becoming a first time author. We come from the same background (zines, mutual aid and DIY community) and so it was really cool to talk with her; after we had gotten our book deals, we also shared the overwhelming fear at a certain point that we were not up to this opportunity. In Jessica's case, she told herself "don't be a foolish loser – this is your dream, take it." For me, I leaned on the support of writer-mama and radical-librarian friends, which helped me through the terror of the process of writing a book, which had always been my dream as well. We have our differences, too: I'm a single mother and she isn't; "Daddy 'Nesto," as their two daughters call him, gave Jessica a lot of support and encouragement for which she is very thankful. Also, instead of having an 18-year-old daughter, like I had, who encouraged me and left me alone to work on my book, Jessica had to write this book with a new baby!

Abigail is walking toward me across the bright pavestones of the town plaza, petite hipster-chick in tow, an emissary from the elite club I'm about to join: mothers with more than two children. The raised eyebrows of the single- and double-childed majority make us seek each other out for brief sanity-confirming, or perhaps sanity-reviving, exchanges. Those mothers with their singlets and pairs sit relaxed on shaded benches, taking their picnic breaks from the day's errands. This plaza serves the exact purpose some long-ago town planner had in mind: it's the hub, the gathering place where we watch each other's lives unfold. In one corner, disaffected teens pretend to an urban sensibility, while sprawled under the big evergreens are the few familiar homeless faces. In the concrete center, spots of glare bounce off neon helmets as preschoolers practice on their first two-wheelers and preteens balance on carefully scuffed skateboards. A pack of kindergarten-aged boys, including my own two, are busy conquering the public art with a game of King of the Sculpture, a tall totem from which they hurtle into the damp grass with endless repetition. In a small community like this, everyone is watching after your kids, and everyone knows your business. I'm right in guessing that Abigail has already heard the news that the swell in my belly has been spied on, discovered to be a girl. Like me, her first two are boys, and she's coming to commiserate.

Christine poured herself a cup of coffee and picked up the newspaper. The headline jumped out at her: OSAKA MAN STABS 23 ON SCHOOL GROUNDS. A shudder rippled through her body. She glanced over at her twins, Emi and Koji, who were just dipping their spoons into their bowls of corn flakes, and slammed the paper face down on the table.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Koji asked.

“Nothing, sweets. Just some bad news. In a place far away.”

Colleen Couch-Smith, 30, is an artist, restaurateur, mother of three (Brendan-13, Ian-5, and Ayden-2), and newest member of Memphis Roller Derby’s Legion of Zoom. I was really excited to meet her and thought you might be too.

Stacey Greenberg: How long have you been a mama? Colleen Couch-Smith: I've been a mama for almost 13 years. I had Brendan when I was still in high school. I went to Hernando High in Mississippi. It was a total drag. I had Brendan when I was senior. Teen moms are real common down there but I was determined to incorporate my child into my life rather than change my course completely. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. When Ben & I got married we knew we wanted another kid but waited until things settled down at the restaurant. Well you just can't wait for stuff like that because IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN! We tried for a whole summer to make a baby. It wasn't until sometime around 9/11 that I got pregnant. All that staying at home watching the news did the trick I guess. After Ian turned into a toddler I swore I'd never have another child. I finally started to regain my composure as a person. I sent Ian to Evergreen, joined a gym, Kelly & I were in full swing with Rock, Paper, Scissors and I was really making an effort to become Colleen. Not "Ben's wife" or "Ian & Brendan's mom."

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