The most important woman in my life (rest in peace, mom) never talked to me - or my two sisters or my brother - about sex. Zilch about menstruation, pubic hair, hormones, intercourse or conception. We snuck our tampons, bras, and birth control into the house like Cold War spies. It was a surreal way to go through adolesc

I was a college counselor for five years, from 1999 to 2004, working with high school juniors and seniors on a daily basis. I loved the job; it was fun, the kids trusted me and confided in me, and it kept me young in a way that few other things ever could or will again.

When I was in high school in the late 80’s, we had a strict dress code that included no shorts, no skirts shorter than your fingertips when your arms were extended straight down, no hats, no halter tops, and if I am not mistaken, no tank tops. Any student that did not abide by these dress codes set forth by the school was sent home immediately.

In my continued struggle with boundaries and appropriate parenting, I found myself at dinner last night with my boyfriend, his daughter and her boyfriend - talking about bongs, sensimilla and one-hitters, oh my.

For the past five days, the streets outside of L.A.'s Nokia Theatre have been occupied by the most hardcore "twihards" - more than 1,400 in fact - all waiting in anticipation for the premiere of "The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn Part I," which will take place tonight (November 14).

After watching all three Twilight flicks in two days, and reading all four books in just 2.5 days - I'm nothing if not thorough - I think it's safe to say I'm officially a Twihard... or Twilight Mom. Maybe even insane according to Robert Pattinson's most recent quotes from the Twilight Convention in L.A.

I was driving home from a delivery when I saw her. Long, dark, curly hair knotted at her neck, jean jacket that looked two sizes too small, and a hint of red sweater, just not enough to cover the bare roll above her belt-line. It gave me a tummy-ache just wondering how she could breathe, let alone move her arms, and not to mention the goose bumps. I almost thought she was wearing a white life buoy and that certainly was the message that came across. “Save me!”

I picked up my son and his friend from the bus stop. It was only my second time in the carpool rotation and I was still feeling my way around the social life of teenage boys. I suspected their lack of interaction might indicate a rift, but I knew enough to keep quiet until I dropped Mark at his door.

At 9:30 on Sunday morning, I sent my kids to religious school. This is the first year that both of my kids go on Sundays, and I have to tell you, I now totally get why my parents made me and my brother go to Hebrew school for so many years.

It wasn’t because they wanted me to learn Hebrew, or to become so well-versed in Judaism. It’s because they got to have three hours to themselves every Sunday morning. Seriously, it all makes so much sense now.

The other day one of my teenage daughters told me she was going to delete her Facebook page. She said she kept noticing that her mood and the way she felt about herself changed whenever she was logged on. She felt pressured about her looks and her social life; basically, she was not feeling good about herself whenever she was using Facebook.