Life-long connoisseur Herbert Brito has amassed an impressive collection of Andy Warhol originals topping two dozen pieces. A constant player in the art-dealing world, he’s also owned works by Jasper Johns, Robert Rauschenberg and Frank Stella. But for Brito the business of collecting is all about heart, not commerce.

It’s a little embarrassing to admit, but I didn’t really get the hang of this mother business until the day I gave birth to my fifth (yes, fifth) child.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, crammed in a dark place like a parcel I didn’t want but couldn’t get rid of, was the thought that something bigger and better was going to happen to me one day. I could not say this out loud even to myself because I knew a good mother would never, ever feel this sense of “The best is yet to come.” Good mothers count their blessings while they stir the macaroni and cheese. Good mothers say things like, “I looked into my infant’s eyes and just knew this is what I’d been born to do.”

My confession may surprise many people—even those closest to me—because I’ve always done a darn good job of feeding, clothing, and encouraging my kids. From the first positive pregnancy test, I have loved them desperately and sacrificed a lot for them. I just didn’t do all of that with ease or the confidence that motherhood was my calling. Deep down I thought I was biding time until my other, real-er calling came along.

Then January 20, 2005, happened to me.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I thought as I awoke abruptly a little after 5 a.m. I knew immediately that labor had started but I was unwilling to accept it being six days early. “Maybe if I lie very still and go back to sleep it will stop,” I told myself. But I wasn’t very convincing. The big problem wasn’t having the baby early. The big problem was that my husband, an Army major, was still sitting in Iraq. His due date to return was in two days. Why couldn’t he be the one arriving early?!

Only he wasn’t and the contractions were not stopping. So I got out of bed in the January darkness and took a shower. “Might as well shave my legs,” I muttered. It wasn’t easy given my size and the recurring contractions, but at least I could have control over something. Nothing else was cooperating with my plan, that was for sure.

Thankfully my mom had arrived to help a few days before. The older children (none of whom, by the way, were born before the due date) were still sleeping when she came downstairs and found me sitting dressed at the table writing a list of phone numbers and instructions. I was so certain this baby would not arrive before his daddy’s homecoming that I had not bothered to prepare much at all. I tried to convince my mom that I could easily drive the 10 miles to the hospital and just have this baby while she stayed home and made breakfast for the big kids. She rolled her eyes and went to get dressed while I called a friend to come over and baby-sit.

I woke the oldest child, age 12, and told her I’d be busy all day at the hospital giving birth to her youngest brother. “I thought Daddy was coming home first,” she said while rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “I know, me too,” I said. “Just roll with it.”

After an unsuccessful attempt to get my mom to let me drive, we pulled out into the dark and stormy morning. As further proof of my yawning approach to preparing for this thing, we had not made a dry run to the unfamiliar hospital. At that hour all the streets looked the same. After a couple of wrong turns, and an increasingly frantic grandmother, we made it to the hospital.

In a freak of military nature, we were stationed in the same small Bavarian town where we’d lived 12 years before. Odder still was that my doctor happened to be the same one who delivered our first baby all those years ago. He was even more surprised to see me than I was to see him. But before I got to see him on that particular morning, I had to get past the German nurses. None of whom spoke great English. And my patchy German was limited more to “How much does this cost?” and “I’d like some more schnitzel, please,” rather than, “Could we talk about pain meds?”

Fortunately childbirth is an international language and the medical personnel soon had me hooked up to various machines and getting ready to head to the labor and delivery room. That’s about the time I looked at my mother and thought, for the second time that day, “You have got to be kidding.”

I adore my mom. We are so close that we talk almost daily and she is the first person I call for advice on pretty much everything. But I really, really did not want to give birth in front of her. (Frankly, I’d rather give birth with no one at all in the room except the father. But since he is a lawyer instead of an ob/gyn I had accepted the need for one doctor and perhaps a nurse to be present. But I still didn’t like it.) And now my mother—my mother!—was in the room. I reminded myself that many women I know seem to think the more people crowded into the delivery room, the more fun it is for everyone.

About this time the head nurse brought me a cordless phone. On the other end, far away in the desert, was an increasingly frantic daddy. There wasn’t much to say except, “Can you believe this? Me either!” Once he was reassured that I was okay, my husband’s primary concern was that we had yet to decide upon a name. “Okay,” I breathed through a contraction. “Let’s narrow it down to Benjamin or Samuel since we both like those names.” I may or may not have actually said, “You decide,” before we were disconnected. But by the time he got through again at the end of the day, the rest of us had determined the new kid was clearly a Samuel. I tried not to giggle when the first thing his father said was, “I’ve made up my mind…he should definitely be Benjamin.” I may or may not have actually said, “Had you been on the same continent, your vote would have counted.”

And then finally the day was over, the drama shared around the world, and it was just me and the new little one in a cozy hospital room. I don’t know why my epiphany occurred just at that moment. But as I stared at that sleeping baby bundled with fists to cheeks in his bassinet, I was somehow allowed the briefest moment to flip ahead in my personal story and get a look at what is to come. I saw clearly that there is a corner which I will turn after these stressful, busy days of motherhood to the small. There will come calmer days than those I have now as a Soldier’s wife. At some point I will have a regular bedtime and even a career to call my own. And these things will be wonderful. They will be very, very different from what I am doing now. But here is the revelation—in no way will they be bigger or better or real-er.

Biggest and best is the calling to create this family where laughter meets sadness head on. Where we feel the strength of our bond even if it is stretched across miles and oceans that separate us. Where these five little people will grow up realizing that they are enough. Enough for me to slip comfortably into this place where I still don’t like macaroni and cheese, yet I thoroughly enjoy the pleasure of counting my blessings. That’s what all of us good mothers do.

Deep in the backwoods of Georgia, equipped with nothing but his creativity and a chainsaw, Thomas Bland creates massive pieces of art. A forester by trade, he’s spent his whole life sizing up logs and lumber, but now he looks at trees from a new perspective

Got a few days to get out on the water?
Try one of these semi-secret sailing spots right here along Savannah’s coast

A few years ago, a creative duo specializing in branding and design started making waves from Tybee Beach. Constantly strengthening their force, they’ve since recruited some major talent, including Scott Jacobs (who worked on branding for Jay Leno) and most recently, Brad Kremer, a sports film phenom. Now all under one roof, they’ve got some very interesting projects brewing.

What happens to these doves when their job is done? A natural, internal homing device takes them right back home.

Born a New Yorker, this delightful, assertive redhead talks about her passion for movies, who she was starstruck by and her love for Savannah. From the big screen to television, Siobhan Fallon Hogan has brought to life many memorable characters, while working side by side with some of Hollywood’s giants.

Due to her expert accessorizing skills, Elizabeth Demos and her vintage-style weddings and events have been featured in magazines such as Southern Living, Better Homes and Gardens. Lucky for local brides, her home base is right here in the Lowcountry.

Maintaining a healthy home and family, no matter the shape, size or color, is hard. Throw in the challenge of helping a young child feel comfortable in a completely foreign country with a brand new family and you’ll see that these locals have taken a lot on their shoulders. But the families are finding that the greatest tests also come with the greatest rewards.

Details magazine and a handful of other media outlets have recently come out with articles about the rise of religion in major cities around the country, a phenomenon made evident by the flocks of trendy youngsters who spend their Friday nights at hours-long sermons and who dub church the best place to find a date. Here in the South, faith has much deeper roots, but that’s not to say it’s not undergoing its own transformations.