My children have moved several times over the course of their lives. Probably too many. I have worried about this - about the effect all these moves might have on their sense of security; their understanding of "home." Not long ago, I confessed this to a friend - one who has moved her own children several times, including transcontinentally - and what she said to me was this: "There are parents who stay still. You don't. That's simply the mother they have, and it's neither a good thing nor a bad thing...it's just one of the things that make your family what it is."

I like to think that's true; that they'll grow up feeling like they've had the opportunity to experience many different places, and that those places - and the people who they've met and loved - are still a part of them. It is true that they have a mother who is restless, and who tends to impose her restlessness upon them, but along with all that restlessness comes adventure.

I grew up in a completely different set of circumstances. Shortly after I was born, my parents bought an apartment on the West Side of Manhattan, in a converted piano factory with massive arches that used to frame horse stalls, and wrought-iron balconies crisscrossing a large central courtyard that grew tulips in the spring and was the stage for what I firmly believe was the world's scariest Halloween display come fall. Most of the residents were in the theater or film industry; that was who gravitated towards Hell's Kitchen back then - or maybe it was just the only place in the city they could afford. When I was twelve, a director who lived on the first floor asked me - out of the blue - to audition for a commercial, and by the end of the day I had an agent and had set off down a path that would shape the next two decades of my life. I feel the butterfly effects of that chance meeting in my life still.