Father’s Day. Ugh, how I used to hate that holiday. Every year in June, I would make my obligatory trip to the Hallmark shop to sift through rows of cards until I eventually settled on something with a benign verse that read, “Hope your day is special,” or “Thinking of you.” I never chose a card that sung my father’s praises. Father’s Day only served as a reminder of all the things our relationship lacked as father and daughter: how infrequently he’d there when I needed him, how steeped in expectations I felt, how I longed to be loved and cherished by him. On Father’s Day, I honored my father because it was expected, but not as an act of love — not really.

We celebrated a big birthday at our house recently. My son turned 13. He’s had good fun the last year, reminding me he’s almost a teen and in that time, I’ve noticed some changes. Moody afternoons that erupt like a sudden storm, more time spent behind closed doors, growing concern for the way he’s dressed. He even bought his first cologne.

Such passages are a reminder that the sweet child I once rocked to sleep is slowly beginning to fade from view. On the other hand, my now teenage son shows surprising signs of maturity, too. He’s made me proud by keeping up with his cell phone. He seldom goes over his minutes, even his text messaging is under control. No small feat for a tech-savvy kid.

But despite his swagger, I’ve learned that while he’s growing up, he still wants to be treated like a kid at times. His recent birthday is a good example.

As parents, we all harbor hopes and dreams for our children. I believe they start at conception when we feel that first flutter of life. Our hopes begin modestly at first. We aim for simple things: that our children be born healthy and strong, that they come into a world that is gentle and kind.

Once our children arrive, we dare to dream bigger dreams. We gaze into the future with cockeyed optimism convinced we can manage whatever life holds. We vow to stand by our children and be their guide until they march off ahead of us into the future.

Because none of us can anticipate the journey life has in store; we must trust our head and heart. We must do what we can to effect change, but also learn to accept what is and do the best we can to retool our dreams.

Sometimes it’s work, keeping hope alive.

But what greater act of hope is there — than giving life?

If you’re a new parent, I’ll bet you’ve gazed at your baby more than once and thought, “Oh my god, what on earth have I done?” That’s no surprise. In fact, I’d say you’re perfectly normal. It’s scary to realize this life you’ve created is entirely dependent upon you. The blessing is that children require just one thing from us — love. To be loved. We are all capable of loving another. The amazing thing about being a parent is that you get to experience the full range and depth of that emotion. Of course, parenting isn’t easy. On any given day, the job can be joyful, maddening, funny, scary, tiring, unpredictable, empowering, exhausting, daunting, transforming — a kaleidoscope of colors. Who knew.

Here then, are a few thoughts on what love looks like.

I’ve been thinking lately about having “The Talk” with my son. No, no, not about sex — that talk doesn’t make me nearly as squeamish. No, I’m thinking I’ve got to talk to him more pointedly about finances. No, not as in explaining the latest sub-prime meltdown. I don’t even think the financial institutions involved have a full understanding of that debacle. I’m thinking more specifically about our family finances.

He’s like most kids, I suppose. For awhile, he just assumed that everytime you went to the bank machine, money was doled out like candy. It was free. Unattached. Available to all. And the bank? Why, the bank was that big, benevolent uncle whose goal in life was simply — to make — you — happy.

Why burst his bubble, I thought.

Of course, now that my son’s a middle schooler, he’s become more sophisticated. He realizes that those funds are actually tied to my earnings.

What? There is no pot of gold? Money doesn’t grow on trees?

I walk this line with my son which becomes very thin at times. Ev is now 12 (almost 13, he’s quick to point out), and since he’s begun attending middle school, I’ve noticed a discernible push to become more independent. We had a heart-to-heart talk recently. It stands out in my mind because it actually resembled a conversation with some give and take of ideas instead of a shouting match, or an interrogation of a captured prisoner. During our discussion, he was anxious to make several points, most of which revolved around him becoming more grown up and my needing to recognize as much.

Can you hear me? Hello... Let me try this — can you hear me now?

You probably recognize that line, it’s from an ad campaign for a certain cell company touting their service, telling us they’ll provide a clear signal no matter where we go. I’ll bet it sells, too. Because communication is so vital to us.

We all have the desire to be heard, to be received if you will, by our spouses, our bosses, our children, all of the important, and even not so important, people in our lives. We especially want those who love us to know and care about what it takes to make us happy. We want them to meet our needs on a day-to-day basis.

I realized as I thought about this month’s issue that communication was the common thread that ran through my conversations with parents and psychologists. Preschoolers who act out because they don’t know how to communicate their desires. Teens who feel like they aren’t seen or heard by their busy parents.

If you’re a mom, I’m willing to bet you spend far more time worrying about the health of your children than you ever do your own. It’s not unusual. As caregivers, we often place the needs of our family at the top of our to-do list, yet conveniently put off things like preventative checkups or doctor appointments of our own because (please pick the one that applies here): 1. We don’t have the time, 2. We can’t get off work, 3. It’s not that urgent, 4. Our paycheck must cover more pressing bills. 5. Or, as in my case, we procrastinate.

I was talking to a writer friend of mine the other day and we were commiserating on the subject of Mommy Guilt. I guess it comes with the territory when you’re working and raising a family. Ever since my son was a baby, I’ve chosen to pursue my career. While I consider myself fortunate to have a job I love, I daydream now and then of chucking it all for the luxury of staying at home and simply being a mom. Having less to juggle would be a welcome reprieve from the balancing act that is my daily life. Not to mention the guilt. I know being at home is no panacea, but something appeals to me about being accountable to one master instead of two.

Anyway, my friend was describing the latest wrinkle she’d been trying to iron out in the care of her child. After much fretting, arrangements had been made for her husband to pick up their daughter after school. Sounded reasonable, but then she described that oh-so-familiar pang of Mommy Guilt.

The arrival of August is always bittersweet for me. This is the month that epitomizes the best of summer. The days are long and sultry, the air thrums with the whirr of cicadas, and time remains for one last escape before school hours dictate our comings and goings. When I was growing up, August was meant for beach retreats and after dinner bike rides. Returning to school was still a month away, an eternity in my mind.

This is why sending my child back to school just days into the month still makes me bridle. Even though my 12-year-old will be entering middle school this year (in other words, I should (really) be over this by now), I still am reluctant to say farewell to summer. After all, Labor Day is still waiting to bookmark the official end of the season. Why must we hurry a month that’s meant to be savored.