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Somewhere in the last decade lie idyllic pockets of time where I cradled the baby, made homemade soup and read ”Good Night Moon” twice a day.

Today, I steal whatever moments I can-not to read to my children but to do the laundry. That my lofty ideals of parenting have crumbled is shown by comparing my three daughters` baby books. My oldest daughter lays claim to a baby book that compares in size to a Paul Bunyan-style stack of flapjacks; the youngest has one the size of a crepe.

I probably should feel guilty about this, but I don`t have time to think about it. Besides, the traditional conclusion to this story reads that while the youngest child spends fewer hours in her mother`s arms and has less documentation of her childhood to cherish, she benefits from having a much more relaxed mother. The broken-in model, if you will. But I don`t feel broken in-just tired.

In spite of the fact that I`ve made a studied effort not to hurry my children`s lives, the demands of the world outside our door assail me constantly. I am held captive by, among other things, assignment books, permission slips, parent meetings, music lessons and teacher conferences. Not to mention mundane activities such as showering, grocery shopping, cleaning the house and working to pay the mortgage.

The world has much sympathy to offer bleary-eyed parents of newborns who face the demands of their infants 48 hours a day. A piece of cake, I say, for the demands of parenting grow with the child as the time available to fill them shrinks.

I had an inkling this would happen. One summer morning, shortly after Katie, my oldest daughter, had turned 4, the two of us sat on our front porch, coffee and juice cups in hand, planning our day as we watched the neighborhood children parade to school for a brand-new year. The crisp autumn hues of their new outfits contrasted sharply with the faded pastels of Katie`s summer shorts and T-shirt.

As we watched the children turn the corner, I realized that the next fall we`d be in that parade, and a profound sense of dread settled over me. But not for the reasons you might think. The notion took hold that the school bell would launch our lives into fast-forward, dragging my children through their childhoods on someone else`s schedule, not ours.

As a former teacher married to a teacher, I admit that`s a pretty bleak picture to paint. To be truthful, the palette of our lives has been splashed with bright colors, among them, teachers who have nurtured my children and the blossoming of friendships with their classmates.

It`s not that I blame school for crowding our calendar. But once your children reach school age, the outside reaches into your life in ways you can`t imagine while your children are babies. After they enter school, the canvas changes from a childlike drawing to something more complex-

pointillistic, in a way, with all there is to see and do and discover. Therein lies the problem: What do we give up?

Placing those points can be a frustrating, time-consuming process, but I suppose one`s attitude is the saving grace. Which is why I`m not bothered too much by takeout food for dinner, unmatched socks and shoe boxes rather than albums filled with family photos.

I`ll be ready the day my two younger daughters confront me with their crepe-thin baby books. We`ll talk of the times they beat me at Nintendo and we ate popcorn and brownies for dinner. We`ll recall the dance recitals and summer days spent at the pool and Friday night get-togethers with our best family friends.

And as we piece together our mosaic of memories, I`ll be sure to tell them one more thing: I had truly planned to present each of them with a complete and carefully preserved baby book. But after a day of park-hopping, feeding the ducks and kissing ow-ies, I was just too tired to stay up late and document.