So, with Mother’s Day fast approaching, I think it’s a perfect opportunity to change our focus for a moment, and reflect on what an inspiration we women – we moms – are to each other and to the world around us.

Despite all of our differences as women, moms have one thing in common: we are all warriors for our children in so many ways.  And our stories bind us.

I, for one, could not have survived my pregnancies, the days of early parenting, and even the current daily grind, without my fellow moms.  And I don’t just mean those women in my inner circle; no, I am so often inspired by complete strangers: women around the country and around the world, who do battle for their children and their families every day.

There are the moms who fight so hard to get pregnant or to adopt a child; the moms who lay on bed rest for months willing their unborn child to a healthy delivery; the moms who sit in the NICU for hours, shepherding their fragile infants toward health and home; the moms who stay awake all night with a sick or colicky baby, and the moms who struggle to nurse their little ones.

There are the moms who struggle to get their special needs children into needed therapies; the moms who fight to make their kids eat broccoli, and fight even harder to make sure their kids don’t take drugs; the moms who battle on behalf of their sick children, never giving up on a cure or a better quality of life.  There are the moms who work tirelessly to put food on the table, to keep their children safe from predators, and to get their kids clean water.  There are the moms who have to leave their children too soon; the moms who have to bury their babies.

There are the moms who sacrifice new clothing so they can pay their kids’ tuition; the moms who have no time for a trip to the salon; the moms who would give anything to trade places with their cancer-stricken child.  There are the moms who cover the walls with their kids’ artwork, and proudly wear pasta-bracelets as jewelry. There are the moms that make sure their kids’ winter jackets are zipped up at the school bus stop, and the moms who comfort their teens’ broken hearts. There are the moms who care for their own sick mothers; the moms who care for their husbands and their partners; the moms who put everyone else ahead of themselves.

We are all moms who juggle and balance, everyday, fueled by not much more than the sound of our children’s laughter.

And then there are the aunts, grandmothers, and friends who act as surrogate moms when we cannot be there for our own children.  We come together as a village to protect and guide our children, never asking for anything in return.  We soldier on.

Over the years, I have learned so much from the mothers around me.  I have watched in awe as my peers battled difficult pregnancies, endured challenging births, and tirelessly cared for both sick and special needs children.  If you’d have asked any of us at age fifteen if we could handle the everyday pressures of being a good mom – never mind the unique challenges so many moms are faced with – most of us would have said no.  And yet, as moms, we just do it.  We plow ahead, finding strength that we never even knew we had.  We grow right alongside of our children.

I can’t help but think that we are more tightly bound together by our shared experiences than we are separated by our differences.

Judging each other for our choices as women and as mothers is so counterproductive to who we are and what we collectively need to do for our children.  It is so important that we remember how much common ground we stand on; it is imperative that we consciously support each other in every way that we can.

So, on this Mother’s Day, a special thanks to all you moms out there who continue to be an inspiration to me, to each other, and to the world around us.

The second is an idea: my analysis of this observation. Sometimes it’s convoluted and takes time to work out, like, “Maybe I’m glad in some ways that we don’t have a woman president.” Other times, it’s as simple as, “I’m tired of carrying a purse.”

Once this second draft has been scrawled in my mind, I move onto the third, a document on my computer, where the idea sometimes flows forth with precision and fluidity I didn’t know I was capable of, and other times lurches onto the page clumsily, requiring dozens of revisions.

The fourth, and final draft, is a letter to the world. In this draft, the strange thing I noticed on the subway, thought about before bed, and struggled to encapsulate on paper is available on computer screens all over the country—and maybe even the world. In this draft, I sometimes share personal embarrassments or controversial opinions with complete strangers.

The immediacy of blogging awes me. What is born and grows in my head, my small world, is suddenly in front of 10,000 readers, all free to comment.

Some stand out: Grace, 17, who said she ran for student body president after reading my blog about my election. Jane, a counselor who posted on her school’s walls my piece about asking for what you want without fear of rejection. And even – or especially – Rachel, whose criticism of my piece on the filmmakers the Coen brothers got personal. I think of these women as my editors.

Grace encourages me to speak candidly about my personal risks. Jane reminds me that my readers may span generations and include communities I do not know. Rachel prompts me to ensure that every opinion I post is one I feel I can defend.

Without these readers, my writing might have remained stagnant. The attitude I walked in with two years ago when I sent out my first blog to the world might have remained the attitude I have today. The risks I was afraid to take might have stuck with me.

Instead, these readers (you all) have urged me to push my limits, speak candidly, and write about more difficult topics. In doing so, I hope in some way I may have inspired some of you do to the same.

In my first blog for Rachel, I wrote, “ I look forward to sharing my ideas and hearing yours (no matter your age or gender!) so we can be sure to continue a much needed dialogue about all the tough things girls and women face, and all the wonderful things they encounter.” From my world to yours I’ve blogged, and I thank those of you who shared a part of your world with me.

These kids are only seven, by the way.

I knew I had a teaching moment at my doorstep, but I really needed to collect myself first.  I was appalled—on so many levels—that my son had heard this, that another boy his age had said it, that someone might say that to my own daughter one day, and that I now had to deal with it.

For a moment, I really wished he was seven months old instead of seven years old, when my most pressing concern was covering the electrical outlets as he crawled around.

I looked at him square in the eye and explained to him that the term was not a compliment, and that while it could mean you think a girl is pretty, it actually doesn’t mean that in a nice way.  “Why? What’s sexy mean?” he asked, pressing me further.  I was not ready to have that talk with him yet.  I struggled to further explain that some words and references are considered impolite and inappropriate, even if they mean the same thing as another, more appropriate word. In a moment of panic, in a moment of sheer desperation (and admittedly, in a moment of poor parenting), I gave him an example using the two very different words for the product of a bowel movement: one appropriate, one not. He knew he was only allowed to use one of those words. He giggled, and got the idea.

I was off the hook.

And yet, the discussion stayed with me for days—I knew I didn’t really address the situation fully (or even completely appropriately).  I knew, deep down, that the issue wasn’t just merely about words.  There was the connotation to deal with, yes, but it was more than that.

How could I effectively explain to my not-even-a-tween son that labeling a girl based on the way she looked was demeaning and superficial, without getting into the speakers’ intent to, perhaps, want a physical relationship with her?

Could I even tell him that I don’t allow Barbie dolls in my house because, as a child, I hated seeing this unnaturally thin blonde woman that looked nothing like me?  I needed to get the message across that labeling girls—labeling anyone, really —for reasons related to how they looked or acted was wrong and unnecessary.

I wasn’t quite sure how to do this.  In one of my many moments of feeling inadequate as a mother, I thought about how if I were in an office, dealing with a complex legal issue, I’d be much better equipped to handle the situation. I was completely unprepared for this, and I was feeling uncomfortable myself. All the insecurities of trying (and fear of failing) to be a good mother flooded me, but I fought back, drawing on all those moments throughout my life when I felt others judging me on how I looked rather than who I was.

And that was the message I eventually communicated to him.  He needed to know that labeling, judging, and cataloging other people—especially girls—based on their looks was wrong, unjust, and (in my opinion), inherently unethical.  I didn’t focus on Barbie (judging her on her looks is wrong, too, I’ll admit). I didn’t focus on sex (I still think he’s too young to understand the nuances of that yet).  Instead, I tried my best to focus on how words can harm, and how they can be used to make others feel badly, if those words are used as labels or intended as judgments, even if the words themselves may seem harmless.

I’m fairly sure my son won’t use or repeat that phrase anytime soon.  I’m also fairly sure he didn’t fully comprehend everything I was trying to explain to him.  If he were older, the discussion would have been very different, I imagine.  But hopefully my guidance now will ensure he won’t be a teenager who uses words hurtfully and inappropriately. Given that his peers are already calling seven year old girls “sexy” while comparing them to Barbie dolls, I have no choice but to keep trying.

Rosemarie Coppola-Baldwin is a practicing attorney and a dedicated mother of  two children.  A Georgetown University graduate, Rosemarie has practiced law at a major New York City law firm and for the City of New York. Rosemarie has been a guest lecturer on women’s civil rights and related legal issues at St. John’s University (New York), and offers pro bono legal services to a variety of entities.

Then, a few weeks before my first blog was due to go live, something incredible happened. I would sit down at my computer to watch instant Netflix, go on Facebook, or some other guilty pleasure, and my mind would suddenly fill with an idea. I’d scramble to open a word document in time to jot down whatever thought or sentence had jumped into my brain, and before I knew it I would have a thousand word piece on getting your period or photo-shopping or Facebook in front of me. It was like my mind had been brimming over with blogs just waiting to be written down for months—maybe years—and now that I had the opportunity, I could hardly stop them from leaping out.

I had blogged before I wrote for Rachel. On my own website, BarbarasAngels.com, and on the Girls Leadership Institute’s blog Woosh!, I had let some of these feelings escape my mind and fly into cyberspace, but I hadn’t been pushed to blog consistently in the way I have been for the past two years.

Don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t always been easy. There have been nights I have sat, eyes glazed over, pajama-clad, in front of my computer screen, typing “blah blah blah” over and over in an empty Word document titled “bloggy bloggerman” (yes, this was actually the title of one blog in a moment of writer’s block).

Somehow for nearly every Sunday of the past two years, a blog has made its way onto my Word document and onto the internet. When I try to understand how this miracle has happened, I realize it’s because no matter how average my life may seem at times, I always have something to say.

I’ve blogged about the mundane (the trials and tribulations of preparing for prom), and the controversial (should we judge another culture by whether or not their women are veiled?). I’ve blogged about the embarrassing moments (feeling the wind literally nip at my behind, when I ripped my dress at an important event) and the moments I’m proud of (running for president of my school). I’ve always had something on my mind I could write about, and trust me, it’s not because I’m some fascinating individual with the secret to writer’s block (it’s chocolate). It’s because I, like all teenage girls, have a lot on my mind—or at least that’s what I’ve discovered through blogging.

Between navigating the battlefield that is high school—and the relationships that are formed and destroyed there—and simply being a part of and witnessing popular culture as a young woman in today’s society, we girls have a lot to think about.

When I was younger, my friends and I kept diaries, confided in stuffed animals, and told ourselves stories. Unfortunately, somewhere around the time that life starts getting more complicated and we actually have more on our minds, we stop investigating our own thoughts. For me, blogging has been that childhood diary, teddy bear, or best friend. Although far less anonymous, it has allowed me to realize and express feelings I might never have known, otherwise. In that way, as cliché as it may sound, it has truly made me a better person.

So, I wish I could go back to those days before my first blog when I would wake up, worried and scared that I had nothing to say. If I could, I would tell myself that my thoughts were valid, and that if I just sat and waited, the words would soon come.