Twenty years ago I led a small group for mothers. It was an offshoot of the La Leche League meetings I had been a part of since my oldest was born, and I invited my friends to come listen while our children played at the park. We sat with our baskets of snacks on a quilt, as kids bounced between our laps and the swings. 

At that point I had six children and fancied myself a trove of experience. It was with a magnanimous spirit that I bestowed my wisdom on such topics as Raising Creative Children, The Invisibility of Love, and Failure is Fabulous. 

Perhaps what I had to say was helpful. Maybe not. But I think there was a tinge of pomposity in the mix. All of the women had younger and fewer children than me and I took it upon myself to pave the way for them. You can clap now. 

Then came Benjamin. And the twins. Self confidence takes a thrashing with the arrival of a special needs baby, and certainly with multiples, so my eagerness to pontificate subsided. Disappeared, really. 

These days I am as surprised when things go well as anyone. I am not tempted to snatch credit for the achievements of my children, and have far less to say when it comes to advice giving than I did in my thirties. 

The spiritual growth group I am in is exploring the story in Daniel about the king's dream. It is a bizarre parable, packed with imagery and extreme consequences. The king begins as a puffed up monarch, convinced of his own authority. He takes pride in the expanse of his kingdom. But in interpreting the dream, Daniel warns that the great tree that will be cut down to the stump, symbolizes the king himself. The prophecy comes to pass, with the king being reduced to an animal like existence, eating grass, with hair like eagle's feathers and nails like claws. After seven years, the man is returned to sanity born of humility, and regains the throne. 

Things did not get quite so desperate for me.

Who am I kidding. Yes they did.