• I thought it was important to teach my three kids obedience.
• Now that they're older, I know it's important to teach them boundaries, too.
• When one of my children respectfully says no to something, I make it a point to validate them and their choice.

As soon as children learn to follow instructions, we start teaching them obedience. I know that's what I did with my kids.

I asked them to share their things, take turns, and compromise even when they're not always ready to do so willingly. I pushed them to cooperate not only because I felt it was the right thing to do, but because I wanted to keep the peace and be seen as a good parent.

Sadly, it seems society only sees agreeable, generous children as good ones, so parents raise them with a give-in mindset. I followed that path until I realized just how my actions were shaping my children's personalities.

Now I am strongly focused on improving myself while developing a parenting approach tailored to what works best for my children.

I wasn't seeing the whole picture

At some point, I realized that constantly pushing my children to say yes to everything, acting like good children are meant to, is affecting their personal boundaries.

When my children were not allowed to say no, I noticed they felt uncomfortable, frustrated, and even angry. My older son had no interest in his weekend archery class, yet I kept forcing him to attend. Every Saturday morning became a struggle, as I spent a lot of time convincing him to go. Within a few weeks, I realized that instead of building discipline or a skill, it was creating unnecessary stress for both of us. So I let him opt out.

Since then, I make it a point to ask my children before enrolling them in extracurricular activities, so they spend their time doing things they genuinely enjoy rather than ticking boxes for me.

They're learning to set boundaries with others, too

I also noticed that my children were happy to share snacks from their cabinet with visiting friends, but became upset when someone opened it without asking. I taught them that there is nothing wrong with saying no when someone crosses a boundary or takes something that belongs to them without their permission.

Setting physical boundaries was another challenge. When relatives and friends would lovingly ask my children for a hug or a kiss on the cheek, I could see them becoming uncomfortable. I could see that they felt obliged to agree, not wanting to be impolite. Without questioning anyone's good intentions, I now let my children decline physical affection when they are uncomfortable. I simply remind them that they can respond with a high-five, a wave, or a smile instead. It helps them respect others' kindness without feeling they have to give up their own boundaries.

People sometimes judge my approach

I have been told I am spoiling my kids by letting them have their say. But because my children know their voice matters, I have watched them handle peer pressure with remarkable maturity.

Recently, when my son's friends urged him to climb a high wall and jump off it to retrieve a lost ball, he confidently refused. They began teasing him, but he later told me he stayed calm and simply replied that he wasn't going to risk a fracture for a ball. Standing up to peer pressure is hard, but because he knew he could set a boundary, it made things easier.

This practice starts at home, even with me. I now allow my children to respectfully say no to low-stakes matters involving personal preferences. Like it's fine if they choose to stay behind with their grandmother rather than attending an outing they won't enjoy. As their parent, I want to teach them that respectful disagreement is acceptable.

I'm also validating their choices

Whenever one of my children respectfully says no to something, I make it a point to validate them, reinforcing that their boundaries matter.

Of course, setting boundaries isn't a free pass for entitlement. It doesn't mean being extra picky about eating or saying no to their assigned homework and household chores. They know that while they are developing these healthy boundaries, I still expect them to demonstrate basic manners.

I want them to be confident individuals who show genuine kindness, but no one should be allowed to exploit it. They should be able to resist unhealthy pressure and hold firm even when saying no feels uncomfortable. I hope that this helps them live a life built with courage, clarity, and true self-worth.

• On paper, everything was going well with breastfeeding.
• However, even with a good milk supply and a latching baby, I felt intense rage during sessions.
• When I learned that there was a name for it, I realized I wasn't alone.

I had finally gotten the hang of breastfeeding: My milk had come in, I had a solid supply, and my baby was latching well. On paper, everything seemed to be going smoothly. But during nursing sessions, I wrestled with a nagging agitation I hadn't been prepared for. Sometimes, during the final feed of the day, it bordered on rage.

"I don't know if I can do this anymore," I texted my husband one afternoon while he was at work. "I feel like my skin is crawling. I want to run through a wall."

Though those feelings went away as soon as the nursing session was over, they kept returning during feeds more often than not.

Finding a name for what I was feeling helped me feel less alone

When I brought this up to my doctor during a postpartum checkup, she seemed puzzled. Eventually, Googling "breastfeeding rage" led me to accounts of "breastfeeding aversion" that sounded startlingly familiar.

One 2023 survey of more than 5,500 Australian women found that about one in five respondents had experienced this.

Finding a name for what I was feeling was validating — it helped me to stop questioning my love for my baby, or spiraling into shame every time I watched the clock, desperate for a feed to end.

But it also left me wondering: Why hadn't I heard of this before?

I tried to make nursing more manageable

After I learned a little more about breastfeeding aversion, I experimented with a few different strategies to help me cope with the negative sensations and emotions that kept coming up.

Distracting myself — say, with a podcast, a show, or soothing nature sounds for those middle-of-the-night feeds — definitely helped.

I also suspected that overstimulation might be part of the issue, so when distraction didn't work, I'd try nursing in a quiet room without a lot of sensory input.

But on occasions where I just didn't feel up to muscling my way through the discomfort, I gave myself permission to take breaks. That meant handing the baby off to my husband for bottle-feeding while I pumped.

Switching to pumping brought relief — and some guilt

About three months into my nursing journey, the agitation became so overwhelming at times that I had the urge to abruptly yank my baby off my breast.

And that's when it hit me. Breastfeeding was supposed to be a positive experience for us. But now, I wondered if "pushing through" the distress might actually do the opposite, breeding tension and resentment rather than bonding. I knew it was time for a change.

The decision to stop nursing was a complicated one — and one that came with a gnawing guilt. I knew so many moms who were eager to breastfeed, but struggled with supply and latching issues, so I felt I didn't have a "good enough" reason to stop. Within days of switching to pumping, though, a dark cloud lifted. For some reason, pumping didn't induce the same emotions and bodily sensations that breastfeeding did. More importantly, I no longer dreaded feeding my son.

My only regret now is that I didn't make the transition sooner. The idea that motherhood meant making sacrifices had cemented into my brain before my son was even born. I was so concerned about his needs that I hadn't given much thought to mine. But my experience mattered, too.

Funny enough, the closeness I expected with nursing didn't come until I stopped. One quiet afternoon at home, as I cradled him in my lap and fed him a bottle, he wrapped his tiny fingers around mine. I finally felt the connection I had longed for.

• Lauren Antonoff is the CEO of Life360 and uses the location-sharing platform with her family.
• She says she tried to mimic her mom's somewhat hands-off parenting with her own two kids.
• Giving kids space can help them develop agency and independence, she says.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Lauren Antonoff, CEO of Life360. It has been edited for length and clarity.

My mother was an awesome parent, but she was a person first. It was just the two of us for a lot of my childhood, between the time my dad died when I was 8, and my mom remarried when I was 14.

During those years, my mom was parenting while also in school, working, and dating. She was always there for me, but she wasn't trying to manage my childhood. She didn't do homework with me, for example. She made sure I was happy, loved, and well cared for, all while living her own life.

A lot of single moms might not have been open about things like dating, but mine was always transparent. I liked that I got to do my thing while watching my mom do hers.

My mom's benign neglect helped me develop agency

I didn't grow up knowing I wanted to be a parent. When I met my now-husband, he was already a father. Our daughter, who is now 27, was 5 at the time. I say I got her the easy way.

From the beginning, my husband was the primary parent. That really opened the door for me to feel comfortable having kids. About three years later, we had our son.

Once I became a parent, my mom and I would sometimes talk about this idea of benign neglect — the benefits of letting kids do their own thing, and figure it out. In my childhood, my mom's benign neglect allowed me to develop independence and problem-solving skills.

Because my mom was less involved than some parents, I created a sense of agency that's served me well throughout life.

I wanted to change the world, but didn't expect to be in tech

My interest in tech was an accident. I thought I would become a civil rights lawyer and change the world.

While I was in college in the early 90s, I purchased a Mac to write papers with. I was living in Berkley, and got sucked into this community of Mac enthusiasts. I understood the technology — though not as well as some people — and I could articulate things well.

My techie friends diagnosed me as a product manager. I had a desire to advance technology that was both intelligible to humans and useful to them. I started working at a startup that was bought by Microsoft.

I thought it would only be for a few years, until I went to law school. I ended up spending 19 years at Microsoft before joining other tech companies like GoDaddy and now Life360. I realized along the way that I have an impact on people's quality of life, at scale, by advancing technology that makes day-to-day life easier.

Location monitoring keeps my in-person connections close

At Life360, we talk a lot about agency, which was so important in my childhood, and which I tried to encourage for my own kids. For me, and a lot of our users, the platform creates agency while helping people boost their real-life connections.

Here's my favorite use case: my husband is still the primary domestic partner, and he brings me lunch most days. If I'm at work feeling hungry, I can check his location and see if I need to get myself a snack, or if he's around the corner with my meal.

Recently, I got a flight notification from Life360. It showed that my brother — who doesn't live locally — had touched down in LA. I hadn't known he was in town, but since I got the digital signal, we were able to get dinner. Ultimately, the platform keeps us closer in real life by creating those opportunities for connection.

I'm cautiously optimistic about the future

I've never seen tech as a bad thing. I had a TV in my room growing up, and a simple coding game that was so basic I had to retype the code each time I turned it on.

I was pretty liberal in how I let my own kids use technology. Looking back, I got my son — who's now 19 — a phone when he was probably too young. At the time, we wanted to play Pokémon Go as a family. I didn't think about how harmful some aspects of tech can be. I'm lucky that he turned out good despite that.

I'm cautiously optimistic about the future of technology. I'm also an activist. We get to shape what the future looks like, for our children and us — and there's a lot of power in that.

• Sometimes I have to take my child out of school for healthcare appointments.
• Perfect attendance can depend on health, access to care, and whether a parent can leave work.
• I'd rather schools reward kids for showing up after hard times than for perfect attendance.

Whenever I schedule an appointment during the school day, I feel guilty.

I ask for their latest available appointment. If that doesn't work, I pull up the school calendar. Then I start doing the ridiculous parent math: How long is the drive? What class will my child miss? Can I get them back before the final bell? Is there some magical way to make a 10:30 appointment happen without blowing up half the school day? Usually, there isn't. So I take the appointment.

I'm a mother in rural North Carolina. Healthcare providers aren't always five minutes down the road, and appointments that fit perfectly between school dismissal and dinner aren't exactly falling from the sky. Sometimes the appointment you need is at 10:30 a.m. on a Tuesday. And sometimes you take it. I still feel guilty about it almost every time.

I want my child in school. Of course I do. I know how quickly one missed class can turn into a missing assignment, which then becomes another assignment they don't understand because they missed the first one. But I also have to take care of my child. Sometimes those two responsibilities bump right into each other. And that's probably why perfect-attendance awards have always bothered me.

My child is my priority

I understand why schools care about attendance. Kids need to be in classrooms. They need instruction, routine, relationships with teachers and classmates, and all the little pieces of school that are hard to recreate at home. When a child is missing a lot of school, I absolutely think families should be supported in figuring out why and helping that child get back into a routine.

But perfect attendance is something different. An unbroken attendance record isn't necessarily a measure of how hard a child tried. Kids don't choose when they get the flu. They don't control when the specialist finally has an opening. They can't give their parents paid time off, fix the car when it won't start, make the school bus come down a road it doesn't serve, or move a doctor's office 45 minutes closer to home.

The certificate may have a child's name printed on it, but there's a whole lot of family circumstance behind that streak. I work for myself, which gives me more flexibility than many parents have. I can move things around when an appointment pops up. That doesn't mean the lost work hours don't matter, but I can usually make it happen.

A parent working an hourly job may be making a completely different calculation. Can I afford to lose three hours of pay? Will my boss be irritated? How many times have I already had to leave early this year?

And that's before we even get into transportation, housing instability, access to healthcare, chronic illness, or any of the other things families may be dealing with that nobody sees when the certificates get handed out. Those circumstances matter. They just aren't evidence that one child tried harder than another.

One sick day shouldn't erase a year's worth of effort

As parents, we already have to make enough judgment calls when our kids are sick. Is this a stay-home sick or a send-them-and-see sick? Are they actually exhausted or just really, really not interested in going to math?

We're told attendance matters. And it does. We're also told to keep our kids home when they're contagious because sending them to school sick exposes others to illness. Both things can be true.

Then we turn around and give an award for never missing a day. That's where I get stuck. One fever in October can knock a child out of the running for an award handed out in June.

I don't want to hesitate before keeping my sick child home because some part of my brain is thinking about an attendance record. And I definitely don't want my child learning that dragging yourself through school when you feel awful is proof that you're more dedicated.

Sometimes staying home is the responsible choice. Sometimes missing school for an appointment is the responsible choice. And sometimes the impressive part isn't never missing school at all, it's coming back.

I'd rather see schools recognize persistence

I'm not suggesting schools stop caring whether kids come to school. Chronic absenteeism is a real problem, and families dealing with it may need more support, not less. But perfection doesn't have to be the prize.

Recognize the kid whose attendance improved from one grading period to the next. Celebrate shorter milestones. Acknowledge the student who had a rough stretch and worked their way back into a routine.

Despite my views, I know I'll keep doing the school-day appointment math. I'll keep asking for the latest opening. I'll keep checking the calendar. I'll keep trying to minimize what my child misses and help them catch up when missing school can't be avoided. And I'll probably still feel a little guilty every time.

My child may never earn a perfect-attendance award. I'm fine with that. I'd much rather they learn that taking care of themselves is responsible, staying home when they're contagious is considerate, and showing up again after a hard stretch is something worth being proud of.

• I've made it nearly 10 years into motherhood without telling my daughter a lie.
• I don't believe in white lies, even when telling the truth makes parenting harder.
• I think being honest has helped my daughter trust me and brought us closer together.

From where I stand, it seems like most parents lie to their kids, at least once in a while.

I am of the mindset that lying, whether to adults or to children, is wrong. Because I view it this way, I am uncomfortable with it and refuse to do it. My husband respects my stance, though he doesn't always follow suit and has told our child a handful of lies. But in the past decade since I became a mom, I have managed to avoid it.

I don't think I'm better than other parents, and I don't think anyone else is bad for harmless untruths. I just knew going into this that I wanted to approach parenting differently in a lot of ways, and this is just one of them.

Not lying doesn't equal to sharing every detail

This doesn't mean I divulge every secret. Kids don't need to know every detail about everything, even when they ask questions.

I was rather vague when she wondered why one of our relatives split up with her husband less than a year after the marriage, for example: "He did something really bad, and it hurt her a lot. She's not able to forgive him," I said, that was the end of the conversation.

I believe it is OK to keep some things a mystery indefinitely, to delay certain conversations or, when choosing to reveal things, to do so in an age-appropriate way (for example, where do babies come from?). But as far as not speaking any falsehoods, I have been consistent.

She asked me if Santa was real

I didn't tell her that Santa existed, but of course, as a toddler, she started believing through other friends, family, and Christmas marketing. I thought it was lovely and let her believe. Why spoil her fun?

But when she was a little older and asked me point blank if Santa was real, I replied in a curious tone "Hmmm, what do you think?" and instead it turned a situation where she started wondering aloud and trying to reason whether it was possible. I listened in the car, nodding along in the parent drop-off line at school. I also told her that a lot of people — including kids in her class — do believe in Santa, so it wouldn't be nice for their parents if she expressed her doubts to her peers. She agreed and went along to the classroom. Granted, I got lucky that it went in this direction. I was able to stay true to my "no direct lies" approach while not shattering a very magical childhood belief — one I remember fondly from my own youth.

And other common ones — like lying about a pet fish dying, or telling the truth when asked about a dinner ingredient, knowing there'd be resistance, or whether I remembered to do everything she asked of me — I don't lie about those either.

These were not always easy conversations (those situations alone resulted in her first lesson about death, her stubbornness to try some foods, and me disappointing her and admitting that "no sorry, I didn't babysit your stuffy while you were at school; I forgot this time.").

Honesty has brought us closer together

If she questions what I think of the makeup she did on my face, I enthusiastically compliment her creativity and say how fun it was to be in her makeover chair; I don't lie and say that the electric pink eyeshadow is the best color ever. I feel that it has built more trust between us and brought us closer. She knows that when she asks mommy something, I'm going to be straight up with her. She doesn't seem to doubt me or second-guess what I say.

As a parent, I understand that we are wired to protect our children. But with lying, I think parents are often trying to protect themselves. We want things to be easier, understandably. We want to say the place is closed instead of just telling the truth that we are just too tired to take them today. We want to tell our kid, "Yeah, the spider is gone now, honey," so they'll sleep well instead of saying that I actually have no idea where it went.

But avoiding discomfort is not a strong enough reason for me to lie to my daughter. It's not just that I believe lying is immoral; it's also about feeling that she deserves the truth. Plus, if honesty is one of the values that I'm trying to teach her, I want to set a good example by being honest with her.

• I spent years preparing my kids for college, but I overlooked some essential life skills.
• I never properly taught them to clean toilets, repay debts, or recognize health problems.
• Now I'm trying to fill those gaps and accept that parenting doesn't end when kids leave home.

Last week, a friend asked if I knew of any jobs for her recent graduate. Between his rigorous academic load, sports, and club activities that landed him in a prestigious university, he'd never held a job.

"My fail," she confessed.

My kids have had jobs, but I have parenting fails of my own. I'm concerned that, in the grand scheme of middle-class privileges, we forgot to teach our children some basic life skills: scrubbing bathrooms, repaying debts, and self-attunement.

I crammed as much as I could into the first 18 years of their lives, but juggling my small business while parenting didn't leave time for everything. I found myself tossing last-minute advice like grapes while driving each to their respective dorms: Carry your drinks with you at all times — even to the bathroom. Know where Student Health is located. Sit in the front rows; meet your professors. Skip the jugs of BORG.

We didn't teach them everything they need to survive, let alone thrive, but I'm hoping it's not too late to offer some guidance.

Cleaning their toilet

The bathroom might be the most inhospitable location in either of my sons' living quarters. The filth lurking below the interior rim is as confronting as the overspray of urine where the lid hinges.

To protect them from chemical toxins, I reflect that I never handed my kids a cleaning wand. They'd wiped down sinks, vacuumed, and washed clothes, but the toilet was off limits. Instead, I'd taken the plastic brush into my own hand or, worse, hired a housekeeper. It should have transitioned at some age, but between my own squeamishness about cleanliness and their protests at reaching inside the bowl, I failed.

I'm consoled that it appears statistically unlikely that anyone would catch a disease from their lack of sanitization, but in the interest of raising functional adults within accepted cultural parameters, I'm impressing upon them the virtues of hygiene and housekeeping as attractive to a future partner, while clamoring to provide motivation.

My kids had no fiscal responsibility

To teach financial awareness, my husband and I set up checking accounts and outlined budgets with our kids in their last year of high school. What we failed to do was teach them the importance of paying bills or repaying debt — imperative when adulting to secure credit, rent your own accommodations, and eventually live a fiscally independent life.

We felt like we were on the right path when our kid bought his first (used) Toyota Tacoma, and we helped by providing a partial private loan to make it possible. The idea was for him to pay us back in monthly installments, no matter how small, but that quickly fell by the wayside when he felt $20 too nominal a transaction to matter.

He eventually paid off the entire debt in a lump sum, and we blew off his breach of our contract, but when a second kid dismissed our financial agreement, I knew we'd made a mistake. It's a lesson worth reworking in the interest of said kids' futures — perhaps we should've enforced stricter consequences for non-payment or suggested a bank loan that has natural repercussions for non-compliance? Idk, but that's my hot tip.

I told them to 'read the room,' but also, they should read themselves

This broad term refers to an individual's ability to assess themself in their environment, mentally and physically. I'd always advised my kids to "read the room," but now I implore them to read themselves — better.

By the end of high school, I'd encouraged my kids to schedule their own doctor appointments but still played caregiver when advising them to stay home from school (with a fever) or insisting on their attendance (to avoid truancy). Collectively considered, I might have disabled their agency given that one of our kids landed in the emergency room after ignoring cold symptoms that manifested as chest pains in the middle of the night, his freshman year of college. Diagnosed with an acute case of pericarditis, his heart was stressed. He spent three harrowing nights in the hospital and continued with six months of follow-up as an outpatient; it was scary. I couldn't conceive how quickly an active young person's health had plummeted so drastically. "This must be super rare?" I asked the attending physician.

"Not really, it's a textbook response to strep throat," the doctor replied. Then, turning toward my kid, he asked, "Didn't your throat feel sore?"

"Not really."

Dropping our youngest child to start her college career on the opposite coast this fall, we kissed and hugged. "Have fun — these years are the best!" Then I added, "but it's normal to feel lonely at times. It's OK to be uncomfortable." I reminded her exactly what I probably needed to hear: "Discomfort breeds growth." And maybe that's how I'd reframe my embarrassing "fails" — as an opportunity for growth, because isn't that why we all went to college in the first place?

• My daughter and I took the scenic route from Oregon to her college in Missouri.
• We camped near Yellowstone, explored Wyoming, and visited South Dakota landmarks.
• The trip gave us precious time together before she started her independent life.

After buying a car for my daughter to take to college, the problem was getting the little Mazda from Portland, Oregon, to Fulton, Missouri. Maria and I are fun in the car, but awful at driving long distances.

We checked the miles, over 2,000, and groaned.

"Are we doing this?" I asked. "Remember Eugene?"

We laughed, thinking about the time after an exhausting day, we couldn't manage the usual three hours from Eugene, Oregon, to Portland without stopping every 10 to 15 minutes. We took turns saying, "Your turn," as we blasted cold air and chomped Good 'n' Plenty licorice to stay awake. Eventually, we napped at a rest stop. I finished the drive and let Maria sleep.

We took the scenic route to college

"Let's make it an adventure," Maria said when we were debating whether to take the scenic route. She knows I love sleeping in a tent and waking up outdoors. Being in nature would ease my aching heart, already missing her. I savored our time before we even started.

We mapped our route, picking the long way. In Yellowstone, we tented next to a motorhome complete with a satellite and TV. We cracked up as we popped up our two-person tent in the RV's shadow. In the morning, it was a quick coffee and on to gawking our way through the park, pointing at bison, moose, elk, deer, wolves, and more. At a geyser view spot, a tourist tried to touch a bull moose with a huge rack of horns while onlookers poised their phones.

We made so many memories together

We drove across Wyoming with its wide-open spaces and the prettiest blue skies. Then camped at Custer State Park, our tent site flanking a river. In the morning, we plopped on a log and sipped cowboy (unfiltered) coffee. "So much better than flying," I said, surprising myself.

Our awe was mild at Mt. Rushmore, where we snapped bad tourist pictures, pretending to squish the presidents' heads between thumb and index finger as a curly-haired woman in white pointy Keds glared at us.

Then, onto Crazy Horse: a massive monument of Crazy Horse, the Lakota leader, still being carved out of the mountain. I cried at its mass, its beauty, its story. For scale, Mt. Rushmore could fit in the finger that points to his people's land.

Next was the iconic Wall Drug, where we stretched our bodies, then drove on to the Corn Palace. "All corn?" I asked. Yes, beautiful, detailed murals crafted of corn and other grains covered the Moorish building.

The road trip made me less sad to see her go

Endless signs in Kansas enticed us with the World's Largest Prairie Dog, a live five-legged cow, plus rattlesnakes. Even though the prairie dog turned out to be a 15-foot-tall, four-ton concrete statue, it topped our list for fun roadside attractions and included a bonus rattlesnake "pit" in a gift shop where rattlers slept in terrariums. The cashier's nametag said Suzy. She hit the tops of the cages with a cane, startling the snakes to shake their rattling tails. We jumped too.

"It's OK," I told Suzy, my hand up in the universal sign for stop. "Let them rest." "You paid to see 'em," she rasped, whapping another terrarium as Maria gave her the side-eye.

We held our belly laughs in until we reached the car.

We stopped at rest stops and gas stations. Drank sparkling water (me) and soda (her). Snacked on chips and Wheat Thins. Took rinse showers at campsites. The only time we drove semi-sleepily was through Kansas with the obligatory, "Are we there yet?" And "Can you drive?" It wasn't as bad as that haul from Eugene home, but the straight flat is hypnotizing.

"My turn. I got you," Maria said, tightening her ponytail and her resolve. I saw her on the cusp of her grown life as she drove the last leg, singing full tilt, our playlist a mix of Garth Brooks, Earth, Wind & Fire, The Chicks, and more.

Willie Nelson sang us across the country. We played "On the Road Again" every morning, every time we restarted, every time we crossed a state line. Whenever I hear "Making music with my friends" it's my daughter I think of.

Once we reached Fulton, Missouri, I knew I could fly home without my girl. We were both ready. While it was bittersweet to drop my dream-chasing kids — first my son, then my daughter — at college, that year my excitement for her overshadowed my sadness.

We'll always have the rattlesnakes. We've laughed about them ever since.

• Our friendship formed over questionable decisions, break-ups, hangovers, and, eventually, the messy business of becoming adults.
• Then, three baby girls born in three cities over three weeks started a completely new chapter.
• Our connection became our parenting lifeline, proving that the best friendships grow with you.

"What a night!" "I barely slept." "I don't even know what time I went to bed."

The same statements can have very different meanings in different stages of life. My friends and I used to worry about where everyone was at 2 a.m. Now, we worry about whether everyone's baby has pooped that day.

Laura-Kate (Lauks), Kirsten (Kirst), and I met 25 years ago at an all-girls boarding school in South Africa, then partied our way through university and early adulthood. For years, our biggest problems were nursing sore heads with painkillers and junk food, who was dating whom, where we were going that weekend, and whether anyone had taken a particularly unflattering photo.

Then, the three of us had babies all within three weeks of one another, reaffirming our bond and allowing us to evolve together in new and exciting ways I never imagined.

Real adulthood happened

Lauks got pregnant unexpectedly, bravely navigating the challenges of being a semi-single mom with a husband who works abroad for up to three months at a time. In the same period, Kirst and her American husband settled in the US, and I was undergoing IVF treatment. We all had our own challenges.

Fast forward a bit, and Lauks told us she was expecting another unplanned surprise. It was a contrast to my own fertility journey, which had been a roller coaster of disappointments, including a failed embryo transfer. I was about to undergo a second transfer when she gave us the news over group text.

Lauks lives in a town about an hour from me. It happens to be on the way to my fertility doctor. On one drive home, soon after sharing her good news, I stopped to see Lauks to congratulate her. I was also six weeks pregnant at the time. I remember sitting there in the cafe trying to get the words out: "I'm pregnant." Cue the ugly crying.

Of course, my next phone call was to Kirst in the US. Little did I know that she had some news she was itching to tell me too. All three of us were pregnant at the same time.

The tone of our WhatsApp group changed immediately

After comparing and complaining about our pregnancy symptoms for months, one baby arrived, then another, then another.

We all arrived at motherhood differently, but we each welcomed a baby girl into the world within three weeks across three different cities (and two continents), and our friendship acquired an entirely new vocabulary.

We had once bonded over crushes, kisses, and hangovers. Now, we talked about latching, snot-sucking, and the intricate details of every strange rash. The conversations may have been less titillating, but somehow, they were even more intimate.

Our WhatsApp group became a kind of 24-hour maternal helpline. "Does this look normal?" Reply at 3 am: "Yes, unfortunately." We sent memes when we were too exhausted to form sentences. We celebrated first smiles and first rolls. We talked about periods, pimples, sex, husbands, and everything else that apparently becomes acceptable conversation once you've been friends for 25 years.

Then, the group chat blew up with more surprises

Earlier this year, Kirsten let us know that baby number two was on the way. This time, it was me bubbling over inside, dying to tell them that I had gotten pregnant naturally. In August, Kirst gave birth to a baby boy, and my baby girl arrived in September.

Although we haven't been in the same room since Kirst moved to the US three years ago, we remain as close as ever, if not closer. My girls are my cheerleaders, doulas, online health advisors, and a massive reason why I've stayed sane (enough) as a mother. They've shown me the power of long-term friendship and the ways women can lift each other up.

In another 25 years, we'll be in our 60s

I can't help but imagine what another 25 years will do to our friendship. We'll be in our 60s, and the kids will (hopefully) be fending for themselves out in the world.

Along with the gray hairs and wrinkles, our priorities will have probably changed once again. After the first 25 years, I've learned that the best friendships don't stay the same, they grow with you. So I know my besties will still be there for me, just with entirely new things to commiserate over, cry over, and kill ourselves laughing about.

• Jen Podany raised her three children in a busy Los Angeles neighborhood where traffic limited their independence.
• After moving to a small Arizona town, her kids can ride bikes and play with neighborhood friends.
• She says their new lifestyle reminds her of the freedom children had growing up in the 1980s.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jen Podany, founder of Bluestone Sunshields. It has been edited for length and clarity.

Near the end of 2024, my family of five had once again escaped Los Angeles for the quiet we found 10 hours south in Snowflake, Arizona.

We'd been doing it for years, renting an Airbnb in Snowflake, a town of 6,000 in the middle of nowhere, switching off amid the miles of empty land.

It had started as a stopover on our way to visit my husband's family in New Mexico. We fell in love with the town, and from then on, we'd visit whenever we needed to get away from the busyness of LA.

In Snowflake, we felt like we could catch our breath. Our souls calmed each time we arrived and ached to stay each time we left.

We put an offer on a house

Back in LA, specifically Burbank, the five of us — my husband and our three children, whom we homeschooled — lived in a duplex made up of two connected apartments. We lived in one of them, which had two bedrooms and one bathroom. From the other apartment, my husband and I ran our two separate businesses.

The duplex was in a neighborhood near a busy street, and we had to be cautious about letting the kids go outside to play because of the cars. I was always holding someone's little hand when we were out, just in case. You could hear planes flying back and forth into Burbank Airport. As our kids and businesses grew, we felt increasingly confined.

Then we saw a house on the market in Snowflake, and I felt in my bones that we should put in an offer.

It was a four-bedroom house surrounded by land, chickens, cows, and a crazy turkey. We could buy it and have our own place to stay when visiting, rather than always renting an Airbnb.

We bought the house for about $500,000, and on our first visit to stay in it in January 2025, none of us wanted to go back to Burbank.

We knew then that we'd make Snowflake our home. And so we did.

We moved from Los Angeles to a town of 6,000 people

In so many ways, our life looks exactly like life in LA. Our routines have remained the same. Every morning, just like in LA, we start our day at a coffee shop. Except in Snowflake, there's only one place to go instead of 20 choices. We work, we homeschool, we eat our meals, and we go to sleep — just like we did in LA.

But by transplanting our lives to a quiet town, we all feel calmer and more peaceful.

Personally, my nervous system has regulated. In LA, I felt like the world was constantly coming at me, like I was being bombarded and reacting to everything around me. Here, I feel like I'm in the driver's seat, with a clear head.

Not only has it been good for my well-being, but it's also been good for my business. The move has given me the mental space to think bigger. It's led to greater creativity, paving the way for business growth.

My kids have an 80s childhood

My kids love Snowflake, too. I didn't have to convince them about the move.

They have the freedom to be out of the house without worrying about cars and crime. Just a bike ride away are other kids with whom they are often found playing.

I think kids grow up quickly in cities, and living here, I feel like my kids get to just be kids. It's like going back to being a kid in the '80s, and I love that for them.

The house is bigger, so we aren't living on top of each other, but they've also got endless outdoor space to explore.

Even though I lived in LA for 20 years, we never experienced friendship and community as we have in just over a year in Snowflake.

We can't leave the house without seeing someone who wants to stop and talk. Everyone here is on "mountain time" — slowing down. No one is rushing around, head down, looking at their phones, too hurried to have a conversation.

Everyone is present and friendly.

My husband and I still occasionally have to go to LA for work, and each time we come back home to Snowflake, I take a deep breath and know we made the right decision to relocate our family.

• As my maternity leave after having my fourth child was ending, summer was starting.
• I wanted to spend the summer with my kids, and I looked for a solution.
• I ended up taking a 20% pay cut for 8 months for another 73 days off.

Our fourth child was a happy surprise, and arrived on the scene when we were busy putting out metaphorical fires with our 4-year-old twins and our 2-year-old daughter, who seemed to spend most of their time playing and fighting.

We felt like we already had a lot of kids. Not too many, but enough. When I learned I was pregnant, we asked ourselves, what was one more?

As my maternity leave was ending, I still wanted more time

Nine months later, the real party began. My maternity leave started coming to an end just as we were facing a very long summer: 12 weeks, from June 20 to September 8, with no school. We live in Spain, and were about to face one of those eternal Spanish summers I remember so well from my own childhood: long, hot days full of sand, sea, salt, swimming pools, and, yes, boredom.

Our monthly expenses were already higher than ever (diapers, onesies, baby food, and all those brand-new baby things I'd previously gotten rid of because I thought we were done having kids). Still, I decided to take a 20% pay cut in exchange for more time, simply so I could get us through the summer.

That decision meant more time with the baby, obviously, but also with the rest of my kids, who are still just older than babies themselves. The difference is that 40 years ago, in many families, one salary — usually the man's — could support a household. Today, both parents often need full-time jobs and want to have professional lives of their own. This is the case for us, and it's not particularly compatible with looking after four very young children for 12 weeks.

Taking a pay cut gave me an extra 73 days off

By agreeing to a 20% pay cut for eight months, I was able to combine my reduced working hours into 73 full days off instead of working shorter days each week. Together with my maternity leave, weekends, and public holidays, those extra days allowed me to stay home with my children much longer than I ever expected. I didn't have to return to work until my baby was 10 months old. It was a financial sacrifice, but it gave me something I couldn't put a price on: more time with my children. Face to face.

It sounded stressful when I thought about it. In reality, it turned out to be a dream. I've had the best summer of my life, and I'm afraid I may never get another one quite like it.

Since June, the weeks have passed slowly, as we looked for activities to fill the days: painting, drawing, gluing things together, doing yoga or gymnastics, trying to get everyone to nap at the same time, and, obviously, spending hours by the pool and at the beach.

There were moments when the baby wanted to breastfeed while my little girl needed a diaper change at the pool, with me sitting on the edge, trying to manage both. Or one kid suddenly needed to pee while the others were happily playing in the water. It has been a crash course in patience, caregiving, and motherhood.

But the interesting part isn't just how much fun we had. It's how much money we saved by doing it this way.

We saved so much on childcare that it didn't make much of a difference

I lost €10,000 (about $11,200) by taking the pay cut, which is a lot of money when you have this many kids. But I also avoided paying for the baby's day care, which costs around €700 a month. Over three months, that's about €2,100. Summer programs for the other three children would have cost around €200 per child a week. Over 12 weeks, that comes to €7,200.

Put it all together, and we would have spent about €9,300 on childcare over the summer anyway. So, in practical terms, we gave up roughly €700 so I could spend an entire summer with our four kids.

It a good trade.

Then there's everything that doesn't fit neatly into a spreadsheet: everything we learned together about being a family, sharing things, expressing ourselves, respecting each other's rhythms, and simply waiting for things to get done, something you do a lot of when there are four small children involved.

Financially, it turned out to be a good decision for us. Emotionally, it was even better.

The question now isn't really how much we saved or lost. It's what we're going to do next summer.

We'll see.