Journey through Motherhood

At "Time to Fly" event benefiting CCRF, 2009

In my neighborhood I am surrounded by mothers at every stage of the journey. My next-door-neighbor has an adorable soon-to-be 3-year-old, down the street are siblings 8 and younger, across the street is a teenager and down from him are recent empty nesters.

My girls will be 16 and 14 this year — we are nearing the end of the "raising" portion of parenthood. Soon we will be entering the "why doesn't she ever call" portion of parenthood, followed shortly, I've heard, by the "my kids finally appreciate me" portion.

I find this stage to be rather ironic.

I mean, when our kids are little, they are just so darn cute, but they are also so much darn work! Their fingers and faces are always sticky, they are constantly needing to be fed, changed or taken to the bathroom, bathed, reasoned with, (as much as you can reason with babies or toddlers), and so on and so forth. They are a lot of work, from which parents often need a break. If I ever had even an hour to myself in my home without my children around, what a joyous time it was! Laundry got done, floors got mopped, windows got cleaned. One time Wayne and I took advantage of a "parents night out" at KinderCare, where they stayed open until 10 p.m. so parents could have a date night, and he and I washed all the windows in our house. They hadn't been washed since our kids had been born, we were happy to have spent our child-free time that way.

Marissa decided not to smile this day. 2012

Then your kids grow and grow, and at this stage they are...people. Fascinating, interesting people! They have opinions and ideas and really big, new words to communicate them. They are absorbing the world around them, making their own decisions about what's right or what's wrong, and wow, look out world, there is some change a-coming! They are so fun to do things with, to go shopping, or out to eat. 

But just as your kids get really fun to hang out with, they don't want to hang out with you. They'd rather be with their friends, watching movies, playing soccer, going to Starbuck's, building relationships with friends their own age. 

Soccer, Summer of 2017

Lindsey, Homecoming 2018

Marissa Selfie, 2019

When they want to spend time with me, I'll be here, ready to reminisce with them about the good old days when they used to play with water tables, push the dog around in a doll baby carrier, and do other silly things. Those stories are always good for a laugh.

Happy Mother's Day. 

What Moms Really Mean When They Say "I Have to Poop"

Credit to collegehumor.com

When my husband and I were first dating and we spent time with my family, he was always a bit befuddled by my mom's need to announce her bodily functions.

"Well, I'm going to go sit a bit," she would state, and march off to the bathroom.

"That's more than I need to know," he would say to me, and we would go on doing whatever we were doing.

It didn't make much sense to me until we had kids.

It began with our first-born, who was crawling at the time and was attached to me every waking moment. The three of us were sitting around one Sunday morning, relaxing while she played happily on the floor. I suddenly knew I had to use the bathroom and yet, if I left the room, I would have a baby crawling after me,

"I'm going to use the bathroom," I told my husband. This was my subtle way of telling him that he was on parent duty and needed to entertain the baby, or at least keep her from following me. He looked at me like, "That's more than I need to know," but said, "Okay...."

I went upstairs and started doing my business and within 30 seconds there was a baby outside the bathroom, crying and pounding on the closed door.

"Wayne!" I yelled down the stairs through the closed door. "Get the baby!"

Apparently I needed to be more direct than subtle.

It has not improved over the years. When our dog Dax needed to be let out, he would whine and pace outside the closed bathroom door, while other family members walked around him, ignoring his pleas to be let outside.

I've had homework slid under the door to me to be checked. I've had children outside the door, telling me about their day. It. Can't. Wait. Another. Minute.

I've yelled instructions to people through the door because apparently they can't figure out what needs to be done without my assistance.

"Will someone please let the dog out?"
"Will someone get the telephone?"
"Marissa, are you getting your shoes on?"

I swear I have not had an uninterrupted bowel movement in my own home for 12 years now. It's not like I go frequently or for long periods of time. It's just that the minute I need to go, someone needs something that only mom can handle.

"Mom! Lindsey pushed me!"
"Mom! Marissa pulled my hair!"
"Mom! I can't find my [insert item name here]."
"Mom, can you help me get something down from the cupboard?"

That last one was the final straw. I washed up and went downstairs to help said child get something from a cupboard out of her reach, only to discover that my husband was IN THE KITCHEN right next to the cupboard where the desired item was.

You got me out of the bathroom for this?

Now, everyone in our house knows that when I say "I need to use the bathroom for a bit" it means "leave mom the fuck alone."

And I am also in the habit of announcing when I have to go, just like my mom, so that everyone knows that I am unavailable for the next 3 to 5 minutes.

I now understand how it is we turn into our mothers when we become moms ourselves.

A Life In Elevens

While many people count milestones in decades, I like to count my life in 11's when I hit the double digits, meaning 22, 33, 44.

In May Wayne celebrated his 55th birthday, I my 44th. This makes the number 11 all the more interesting. I like to think about what was going on 11 years ago when he turned the age I am now turning. And the fact that our birthdays are only 13 days apart (plus 11 years) makes the math all the more fun.

When I was 11 I was in the 6th grade, starting my first year of education in Sheboygan Falls, the town I would eventually call my hometown, even though I spent my first 11 years elsewhere.

At age 22 I met the man who would become my husband. He was 33, the older brother of a college classmate of mine (now my sister-in-law). He lived in Burnsville and I lived in St. Cloud. He put tons of miles on his Ford Explorer and I on my Chevy Nova going back and forth between our two cities until I graduated from college and moved to the Twin Cities.

Our engagement photo.

By age 33 this husband and I had our first baby -- one year old, born just three days before his 44th birthday. I think back on those early years of parenthood and I smile and cringe at the same time. I have absolutely no desire to go back to those days of sleep deprivation, dirty diapers and interpretive communication with toddlers. Don't get me wrong, they were sweet, cute and funny, but I am happy to not spend my every waking moment caring for wee ones any longer.

Wayne and I with Lindsey, 2 days old.

This year, our growing girls will turn 10 and 12. They are at that magical stage -- not yet moody,  snappy teenagers, but no longer in need of constant care and attention. They have their own thoughts and desires, their own sets of friends and interests, and are well on their way to becoming independent adults.

Not shockingly, we have no recent family photos besides this one from this past Christmas.

What will 55 bring? Our 12 year old will be 23, our youngest (youngest!) 21. They may live at home, they may be in college.  We may be in our current house or in a condo. At least one of us will be retired, maybe both of us if we can swing it. (Or so I like to dream.)

What a trip, this life in elevens.

Mommy Time

I recently returned from a 4-day hiatus in Florida, compliments of my sister-in-law who invited me on her trip and my husband who set aside the money to help pay for said trip.

He could tell I needed a break.

It wasn't just the holidays, it was the day-in, day-out grind that was getting me down, the fact that I do not get time away from my kids unless I'm at work, and we all know what a "break" work is.  Happy hour with friends after the kids go to bed don't count because I'm sacrificing sleep to be there.

It became readily apparent when my husband came upon me attempting to workout in the basement, with two little girls at my side. One was trying to lift dumbbells along with me, the other one was asking me to pause the program every two minutes to get her a band aid, a drink, look at her toenail, what have you, she clearly wanted my attention and I was unwilling to give it.

"I need my workout," I stated, "Daddy gets to work out by himself, why don't I?"

Daddy goes for a run to get his workout in -- hard to be interrupted by little ones that way. But I'm not a long-distance runner and never will be, so that's not an option.

Daddy gets to take a shower by himself without a 9-year-old coming in to announce her annoyance that laundry hasn't been done yet and she has nothing to wear to school.

Daddy also gets to spend time alone in the bathroom without someone walking in or, if the door is locked, pounding at the door, needing something. That. Very. Minute.

I can't help the fact that when someone calls "Mommy?" in the middle of the night my eyes instantly open and I'm immediately awake, no matter how deep a sleep or how good a dream I was having. It's not my husband's fault that they don't call "Daddy."

It's not his fault; it's part of being the mom.  And it was time for a break.

When the opportunity for this trip came up, my eldest sobbed herself to sleep that her mom was going away for four whole days without her, thus demonstrating once again how very badly I needed this break.

They dropped me off at the airport and went on their merry way to their grandparents for a little holiday visit. I spent time in an airport by myself, answering to no one but the page calling me to board the plane. 

My layover in Atlanta was extended by a delayed flight out of Atlanta to Panama City Beach, which meant I had time to grab some dinner and a glass of wine. I didn't have to worry about feeding little ones who get cranky if they were too long without nourishment.

I got up the next morning at the crack of whenever I felt like it. I fed myself whenever I got hungry. Or I should say, Laurie's friend, Claudia, fed me whenever I got hungry. One of the perks of this trip was vacationing with a chef whose idea of relaxing was spending 5 hours in the kitchen making gourmet meals for an appreciative audience.

I got a workout in every single day because yes, that is my idea of vacation time. I took a nap when I got tired. No one called for me in the middle of the night. We made grand plans to do things together and then never did them because we didn't feel like it. It was just so relaxing listening to the surf and feeling the warm breeze coming through the always-open patio window.

After four days I started missing my kids and my husband. That was just perfect, because it was time to board a plane and come home.

And now the "grind" isn't really a grind, it's more leisurely and less stressful because I don't feel worn down.

Perfect Mommy Time.

On My Wish List: Healthy Babies

Lindsey and I at Breezy Point Resort, 2004.

My babies aren't really babies anymore.

I am at that strange place in parenthood where my kids are young enough that they need lots of guidance and parenting while they are still at the age when they'll listen, but we are beyond babyhood and toddlerhood by several years. The world of diapers and bottles seem like they are so far behind me that it's almost a foreign concept.

Many years ago I was hobnobbing with some direct marketing associates from New York. One of the women, a dear, wonderful lady in her 60's, remembered her labor story like it happened yesterday. Well, she remembers what she could of it, considering she had been at a New Year's Eve party and was incredibly drunk.

She got nauseous and began throwing up around 11:30 pm. She knew she'd been drinking a bit much but hadn't realized how much. Her husband was bummed that they had to miss the big New Year's countdown, but understood and took her home.

Once they arrived home the nausea got worse and worse, and around 1 a.m. she finally realized she was in labor.

They rushed to the hospital and within hours she had her baby. Her first.



Today, we can't imagine the scenario. What we've learned about the impact of alcohol during pregnancy is enough to scare pregnant women sober. My obstetrician had a "zero tolerance" policy during pregnancy. She told me flat out "If you think you need to have even a single drink while you're pregnant, I'm not your doctor. Go find someone else."

Marissa and I in 2005. She was a happy baby, honest!

From the negative impact of smoking and alcohol to the positive effects of Vitamin B and prenatal vitamins, we've learned a lot over the years about what it takes to have healthy babies.

But there's more to learn, and the March of Dimes is on the leading edge of research to find out what we need to know to ensure that every pregnancy ends with a healthy baby being brought into this world.

There's a new message that the March of Dimes wants pregnant women to hear. But I've decided to share that message on my friend's blog. So hop on over to Marketing Mama for the latest discovery that March of Dimes needs pregnant women to know.

P.S. If you don't already follow Missy's awesome blog, you need to. She is an amazing single parent to two beautiful kids, one of whom has life-threatening food allergies. She's also an incredible healthcare marketer by day. What doesn't this woman do? Oh that's right, organize blogger conferences in her "spare time." A serious overachiever if ever I met one. You can like her page on Facebook, or follow her on Twitter. (@Marketingmama)

Capital "T," Capital "G": The Grind

Get up. Get ready for work. Get children ready for school.

Brush little one's hair. Create ponytail/pigtail/braids.

Give hugs and kisses.

Go to work. Meetings. Phone calls. Spreadsheets. Letters. Emails. Emails. Emails.

Leave to pick up kids. Go to school #1. Looks for boots. Look at special school project at close visual range.

While in car on way to second school hear all about the day. Pick up at school #2 begins.

Collect boots. Collect backpack and gym shoes. Bicker with sister over who gets to tell mom about her day.

Home.

Quick! Feed the dog, he looks like he's going to gnaw your arm off. Whew! Disaster averted.

Start dinner.

Look through backpacks.

Stir dinner. Add some more ingredients.

Collect mail. Throw a load of laundry in.

Set table.

Serve, eat and clear table of dinner. Transfer laundry to dryer.

Clean up kitchen while half supervising homework. Or, in today's case, make a Valentine's Day mailbox for one child.

Begin bedtime routine. Begin bedtime routine. Begin bedtime, girls! Get your butts upstairs! Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!

Fold clothes while checking in on children's progress at 2-minute intervals.

Distribute clothes to bedrooms. Read books.

Give hugs and kisses.

G'night!

And usually fall into bed myself shortly after.

6:00 am -- Get up. Get ready for work.

"Why am I so exhausted?" said one friend last week, when we broke this routine to gather for drinks. "I don't understand, I don't even DO anything!"

Capital T, Capital G. The Grind.

I think I know how Sisyphus feels.

Super Mom does not live here.

These Moments

I recently read a blog post in which a mom re-counted a sweet moment with her daughter. A moment. That's all we have, really, is life lived in moments. As humans we can't possibly drink in every detail of minutes or hours, we simply couldn't process all of that. So we live in moments.

Babyhood is filled with those sweet moments, those times of quiet repose with a baby gazing with wonder into your eyes. They become fewer and farther between as they grow into toddlerhood and beyond.

Yet I was recently reminded of those days as my youngest has struggled with the somewhat recent time change and a vacation which threw her schedule off kilter. She would sleep in if I could let her, but as two working parents, we have to cajole and urge our children out of bed so we can get to work.

"Carry me," she says, holding her arms up like a toddler to be picked up. She refuses to get out of bed but agrees to get up if I carry her down the stairs and into a kitchen chair to eat her breakfast.

And so I oblige her, picking up my big kindergartener, who wraps her legs around my waist, lays her head on my shoulder and holds on tight. Suddenly she is 1 again.

I hug her tightly, kissing her hair and carefully treading down the stairs. She is heavy and ungangly with her long legs and her torso which is slipping further and further down my body. She smells of shampoo and sleep.

We arrive in the kitchen and I set her in her chair.

"Thank you, mama," she says, and give me a peck on my cheek. Upon sitting in her chair she suddenly becomes a 5-year-old again, insistent on pouring her own milk and giggling with her sister over a burp.

But for a moment, a sweet, brief moment, she was my baby again.

Summer....And the Guilt is Heavy....

I know, that's not how the song goes.

The livin' should be easy, but as a working mom, guilt is often at an all-time high.

Especially working moms who remember their childhood summers as children of non-working moms. Those carefree days, the hours spent in pursuit of...nothing in particular. The bike rides up and down and all throughout the neighborhood. The lunches that were quickly gobbled by the side door because you couldn't come inside long enough to be bothered with an actual lunch. There was PLAYING to be done, mom! This is serious stuff! We must ride our Big Wheels until we develop blisters on our back from rubbing against the hard plastic seat. We must run around until our sandals rub the skin off our pinky toes and our knees are permanently blackened by a day's worth of sweat and dirt brought on by our fascination with mud pies and ant hills.

And then, there's my kids' summer.

It doesn't look a lot different from their school year. We all wake up. We get dressed. We eat breakfast. We leave and lock the house for approximately 10 hours, during which time we go to work and our kids go to their various programs. We come back home, make dinner, eat said dinner, clean up and start bedtime. During the summer months my girls are often in bed when the sun is still miles above the horizon and the laughter of other kids still outside playing waft through their windows.

I can tell that the days are already beginning to get shorter. I can tell because my mom guilt of putting my kids to bed in broad daylight is being eased, since it's no longer broad daylight when I put them to bed. Yet I feel badly because I'm wishing away my children's summer.

So I try to focus on the things my kids get to do in the summer that I never did.

Lindsey got to go to ValleyFair with 20 of her classmates. Twenty. I can guarantee you I would NEVER agree to take her and 20 of her closest friends to ValleyFair. Apparently it was fun and involved some screaming and laughing. She also takes approximately 2 to 3 field trips a week to various museums, regional parks, water parks and all kinds of other places that I am pretty sure I would have never had the ambition to take on.

Marissa was able to take a soccer class with her classmates as well, an activity I can guarantee you I would never organize had I been at home with her. She also took part in a music class and cooking class where they get to eat their mistakes. Sounds delicious.

I'd like to hear from other working moms -- how do you cope with summer mom guilt? What are your kids' favorite parts of summer?