Fifteen years ago, I was lying in the starkly lit delivery room at New York University hospital, supposedly ready to give birth to my second child. But as push came to shove, I felt about as ready as a kindergartner taking the SATs. It was like a first birth for me because my son, Robert, had arrived three years before in the blur of an emergency C-section, without a single contraction to prepare me for his arrival six weeks early.

This time, my new OB—the well-known and very strict Dr. Livia Wan—had promised she would get me safely to my due date. She had delivered more than 3,000 babies throughout her career and felt I could deliver this one full-term and without surgery.

I wanted to believe her, and as my tummy grew to the size of a state-fair blue-ribbon pumpkin, I grew ever more confident in her judgment.

It was mid-December, and I was two days from my due date—perfect timing—when the contractions started at midnight. We dropped 3-year-old Robert off at our friends' house and drove in a light, swirling snowfall to New York City, an hour away from our home in Chappaqua, NY. At the hospital, I spent seven hours sleeping between contractions. Then suddenly a tidal wave of pain hit, causing me to flail my arms, tear an IV from its mooring in my hand and send the early-morning shift into a whirl of action. I remember hearing a young intern urgently call Dr. Wan to the scene, warning her that I had achieved full dilation in one Olympian sprint.

The fear that gripped me increased as soon as Dr. Wan entered the delivery room and a hush descended. She was ordering the nurses about in her staccato voice when a brilliant idea suddenly struck me. Instead of struggling with the fear and pain of impending delivery ? what if I just went home?!

In that moment of panic and confusion, this seemed like an entirely rational request. So I summoned my powers of persuasion, honed by years in sales, to get Dr. Wan to agree to my plan. In between pushes that grew increasingly intense, I used my remaining breath to shout, "I can't do it, Dr. Wan. I want to go home. I really can't do this!" I truly believed I could convince the stern-faced doctor to let me quit pushing and leave the hospital. "Let me go home," I yelled. "I can't do it!!"

Dr. Wan stopped her work and looked directly into my eyes. "But Carol," she said with a cheerful grin, "you are doing it."

Of course, she was right. I was doing it. In fact, I had done it. "Push!" she barked, and I did. That last effort was no more difficult than the rest of the journey, and Julia Rose, my 8-pound 2-ounce beauty, was born moments after my crisis of confidence.

Dr. Wan then placed the baby on my chest and said, "See? You were doing it." We Are Doing It Today, as CEO of Working Mother magazine, I'm often asked how we working mothers manage to juggle motherhood and career, life and work, self and job. And I always think of Dr. Wan. Because sometimes being a working mother feels overwhelming, and some days we're convinced we just can't do it. We want to yell at someone, "I can't do it!! I want to go home!"

And then I see Dr. Wan's smiling face in front of me saying, "But you are doing it!" And I realize that we are. Twenty-six million mothers—more than 72 percent of all moms in the United States today—work full- or part-time. We raise strong and happy kids. We fuel the economy. We earn money that keeps our families safe and secure. And we get a ton accomplished in a day at work.Still, most of us draw a blank when friends and family ask us, "How do you do it?" Nine times out of ten we laugh (or cry) and say, "I don't know. I just do." But in our hearts, we know that response doesn't do justice to the real answer. How do we do it? We do it with old-fashioned elbow grease, with humor, with sleepless nights. We do it with the help of family and friends who pitch in, with great babysitters and caregivers, with husbands who learn how to support us (or not!!). We do it by cramming more into a weekday and into a weekend than should be humanly possible. We do it by finding confidence in our own choices. And increasingly, we do it with the support of our workplaces?and our husbands. However, my husband, Bob, now a devoted partner and father, wasn't always that way.The Venus/Mars EquationWhen I first met Bob, he was a 37-year-old confirmed bachelor, a former tennis teacher with sparkling eyes and a high-spirited sense of fun, who usually dated two or three women at the same time-until he met me. After Bob realized he couldn't teach tennis eight hours a day for the rest of his life, he went into the insurance business and later sold mutual funds. Although he did well and was rewarded with annual trips to the President's Club meetings held in beautiful resorts, he never really loved his work. I, on the other hand, was madly passionate about my career in publishing and my job at Working Mother magazine. Thanks to this fundamental difference, Bob and I ended up making choices that neither of us could have imagined. Gradually, he downsized his career, eventually working part-time and becoming the first "at-home dad" we knew—but not the last. The idea of Bob staying home with the kids would have seemed completely ridiculous to both of us early in our relationship. After all, I almost ended our relationship because he didn't seem to want to have children in the first place.

I always knew I wanted kids, and I assumed everyone else did, too, including Bob ? until we attended the christening of Lauren Knight, the first baby to be born to our circle of friends. As I held the tiny bundle of baby in my arms, agog at her newborn beauty, I looked up at Bob with love in my eyes and said, in front of all of our friends, "Oh, Bob, wouldn't it be great to have one of these?"

Bob looked right back into my eyes and said flatly, "One of what?"

That's when I knew I had to get serious about my future. I was 31 years old, and although I loved being with Bob, I was not going to marry him if he didn't want kids. So a few months later I gave him The Ultimatum. I told him that he had six months to decide if he wanted the whole nine yards—wife, kids, home, responsibilities. I told him I wouldn't nag him about it or point to the precious toes sticking out of baby backpacks anymore. He simply had until December 1, and if he didn't decide by then, I'd be on my way. Or rather, he'd be on his way, since we had been living in my loft in Greenwich Village for two years.

He never did actually propose. He just stood up before a group of 35 friends gathered at a restaurant in Westhampton Beach and said that we were "talking about getting married." He must have been having a deep conversation with himself ? the M-word had not crossed my lips since The Ultimatum. But it was wonderful anyway—and it was November 1, a whole month before the deadline.Gallery of GuiltEven with Bob's support and my usual level of confidence, I haven't been able to escape pangs of guilt about my career demands. I still cringe at some of my personal guilt stories. In fact, over the last 19 years of working motherhood, I have personally experienced nearly every type of guilt imaginable.

When Robert was 3, I'd taken a new job at Stagebill magazine. Arthur Levitt, Jr., my powerful boss, called me at home one Saturday while Robert and I were coloring at the kitchen table. As I started to write down the name of someone Arthur wanted me to call, Robert fell off his chair with a thunk.

I screamed and hung up on my boss. When Arthur found out that Robert's little arm was broken from that fall, he must have felt guilty, too: He almost never called me at home again.My Top Five personal guilt moments (Just try to top them!)

Looking Forward by Looking BackOne of the strategies I have used to keep my guilt in perspective is to keep a journal. Through all the ups and downs of working motherhood, keeping a journal has helped me savor the joy of my full life. It's something I recommend for every mom.I've been journaling on and off since my early twenties, when I wrote impassioned entries full of the turbulence of a life transitioning to adulthood. Once Robert was born, my journals changed dramatically. I wrote about Robert's, and then Julia's, cute moments, their development, needs and joys. The tiniest details are the most precious:

• February 13, 1991 (Robert is 4 years old) Robert is an incredibly wonderful boy. Tonight he washed his hair by himself!! He also baked Ninja Turtle cookies (I helped) and decorated them. Yesterday he came home with a valentine, and I said, "Is that for me?" He said, "Oh, Mommy"—with great scorn—"you big silly, of course it's for you!"
  
• March 30, 1995 (Julia is 5) Julia must have heard us talking about my worries at work. She said, "Mommy, if you get fired, will our house burn down?"
  
• February 27, 1995 (Robert is 8, Julia is 5) I'm flying to California for a trip with too few appointments! Robert cried this morning. He woke up and hugged me and was sad and he told me I had to wake up Julia—"You promised!"—and then she cried and they kept hugging and crying and then they stood in the picture window and waved.
  
• May 5, 2001 (Robert is 14) Robert is so sweet. He still likes to hug and give kisses. He always says, "You're the best mommy in the whole world!"

Click here to order your own copy of Carol's book!