It is dismaying to realize, as I approach my late thirties and watch many of our friends have children, to see how few of our friends have given a passing thought to the full weight of the action they are undertaking. I sometimes wish that all of these eager parents would be given a course in Buddhist ethics: they could be encouraged to think carefully about the prospect of bringing another human consciousness into the world. This human consciousness has no choice in the matter of being born and will have to endure terrible pain, loss, and illness, in addition to some happiness, before death.

LW seems to have become aware of the bare facts of our condition, if a bit late in the process. The thoughts that cross his mind are simply true ones, as Cary suggests. Some new parents have fantasies of invulnerability; they dream that catasrophe will not strike because they have a dozen airbags in their vehicles, etc. But "bad things happen to good people," as the author wrote. And our sense of control over these things is merely a veneer, a false hope. Perhaps our awareness of our own mortality and vulnerability can be an occasion for compassion rather than merely a fantasy of immortality and legacy.

I didn't speak at my dad's funeral. Hell, I didn't even go. I barely found out he had cancer until just before he died. A friend of my mom's I hadn't spoken to in nearly 15 years told me he was dead the day after he died. It was a 3-second conversation.

When these "dark" thoughts enter perhaps learn to apply that study of perspective in the news to a study of perspective in your son's life.

It would've been an rare pleasure to have had the kind of father whose funeral I might have attended, or wanted to speak at...hell would've felt safe to speak.

We only feel pain at loss when we're positively invested in the world around us. I don't even think I cried at the news that my father was dead. THAT, my friend, was really a far greater tragedy, and inspired far more tears throughout my lifetime (and a lot more therapy) than the death of an involved and caring father would've been.

I promise.

Rejoice in the knowledge that your son has parents who love him and take care of him. That's the basic underlying element to all your worries: that there's someone who is worrying. That's pretty marvelous. Good for you. Good for him. What a thing to celebrate!

My brother had many problems. His physical health was poor and, to combat constant physical pain, he turned to drugs. In the year before his death, he had found out that his fiance was still married and not free to wed him. He had suffered though a dangeous operation. He had been kicked out of the military.

During that year, he behaved rather strangely. He was by turns sociable and reclusive. He had premonitions of death. He would grab me and hug me tightly and more affectionately than anyone does in our family. I was uncomfortable with him. I did not know what to make of his behavior. Finally, this morning so many years later, I, who am so prone to analysing and looking for motives, realized what the hugging meant. It meant he needed a hug. It was that simple.

All the ways that I had held back came rushing at me. My family had been so dysfunctional over my childhood that I did not understand the simple language of human need and affection. Needless to say, I began my day today with tears and regrets.

First lesson: Don't hold back. In the face of all your grave imaginings, give yourself completely over to the love you have for your child. Love deserves nothing less.

Some eight years after my brother's death, I gave birth to my only child. After her birth, I was too exhausted and shaking to securely hold her and the nurse whisked her away, but I was soon more rested and calling for her and wanting her back. Then they told me that her heart seemed irregular and when they finally brought her to me, she had little electrode type things at every pulse point. I felt a certain familiar shutting down. I would not give her all my love just yet. What if . . . ?

I was afraid. The first two days I could see her to nurse her but I could not keep her in my room at night as all the other mothers were able to do. They were still monitoring her heart. The third night, they left her with me. The electrodes were off. She would be okay. Love rushed at me as it had never come to me before. I knew that I would die for her, therefore, I could protect her.

Second lesson: You cannot provide perfect protection.

When my daughter was three something happened that I could not imagine. Something bad. I had not sufficiently protected her because there was no human way possible to predict the event. The guilt was crushing. However, I vowed to do whatever it took to fix the problem. I spent the next 15 years laboring at undoing, the way a knitter will unravel a work in progress to get the stitches right and then re-knit again. I gave everything I had to her healing.

Third lesson: Heartbreak come from what you don't expect.

Now that my daughter is an adult, she has made some seriously flawed decisions. I believe that some of these decisions are the result of the past event and, when I am feeling irrational, the guilt is still crushing and I still think I can fix this. If I don't keep my head straight I will "fix it" until I alienate her.

Fourth lesson: You cannot fix everything.

So there you have it. The impossible conumdrum. To be a good parent you must make yourself vulnerable knowing full well that your child will suffer and that you will suffer and that there is no avoidance of suffering on this earth and that there is often no repair for suffering.

Don't forget to let go when you have to. When you die you want your child to speak at your funeral and to say that you did your best despite your human failings and your ordinary flaws and that, at the necessary point, you had the grace to let him chart his own course.