30 Things Motherhood Taught Me

When I look back over the years... 12 years... there are countless things I learned as a mother, things that I never would have known had it not been for my three beautiful children—Hannah, Sara and Max. Though most of the lessons were wonderful and amazing, some were not easy or pleasant or, even valuable, as far as I can tell up to this point... but they are an inseparable part of me. They have helped shape me into who I am today. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I learned...

... the names of all four Teletubbies--Dipsy, Tinky-Winky, Lala and Po
... holding my new born baby could be thrilling and terrifying in the same moment
... my children would repeat every ‘bad word’ I said at the worst possible moments
... washable paint doesn’t mean the same as wash-off-able or wash-out-able
... I can’t compare number two to number one; they are totally different beings
... number three was a blessing, never an oops
... doughnuts are a great bribery tool
... boys may never learn to lift the lid
... all my children had to color on the walls or in a book at least once, some more than once
... that to avoid a toddler who is utterly crestfallen, crushed, disappointed and defeated and who blames me for it all, I should have taken roses to the Wiggles concert... why did no one tell me these things
... not to EVER place a bouncy seat on an elevated surface as clearly and boldly printed on the warning label... sorry Love
... it’s ok to let her wear her Sleeping Beauty ‘dress-up’ shoes and Minnie Mouse dress to the store
... even at seven he wants his mother to scoop him up and sooth him when he gets hurt at a baseball game
... to ALWAYS bring snacks whenever, wherever I go with my kiddos
... letting a baby cry themselves to sleep is gut wrenching
... bathtub crayons are an impossible nightmare to clean off of white grout
... it is OK to use the TV babysitter
... my girls couldn’t be kept away from pink, sparkly, frilly stuff no matter how hard I resisted
... the time between her first day of kindergarten and her first day of junior high was so short
... parenting by volume is difficult to avoid at times
... Biter Biscuits are soooooo messy and that I should send what was left of the box to the babysitter’s house
... not to let my child stand up in the basket part of the shopping cart, as clearly and boldly printed on the warning label... sorry again Love

... all my children had to try cutting their own hair, some more than once
... Goodnight Moon can take 30 minutes to read
... nursemaid’s elbow (partial dislocation of the elbow) can easily and quickly be fixed at home and doesn’t necessitate a 20-minute drive to the emergency room while my child issues forth endless waves of blood-curdling screams
... meandering walks lead by a two-year-old are some of my most cherished memories
... a juice filled sippy cup left in a hot car creates a huge leaky, oozing, sticky mess
... the sound of my children’s laughter and giggles is the best therapy
... the laundry is never, and I mean NEVER done
... my children love me and forgive me even when I make mistakes, even really big huge ones

I am sure it goes without saying, this is by no means a complete and exhaustive list of what motherhood has taught me. And I know without a doubt I still have many lessons yet to learn...both joyously and painfully. I am grateful for my three little chicklets and the lessons learned, making me a better me.

I'd love to hear what motherhood (or fatherhood) has taught you?

Happy Mother’s Day

A Hoppy Ending

As an individual full of faults, flaws and shortcomings, in the past I have often done the same (not so smart) thing over and over, getting the same results without realizing the pattern. And even when I identify and accept a behavior defect about myself that is none too flattering, I find I am still prone to repeating it. When I sidestep a fear or weakness, it tends to sidle back in and bite me.

I was recently smacked in the face with one such unpleasant penchant of mine. I don’t like to admit out loud to anyone that I suffer from this affliction... but since my marriage is dissolving, I must begrudgingly concede that it is high time I address this tendency.

I am a Hopper. I am sure you are wondering what the heck is a hopper? It doesn’t identify someone who is good at hopscotch or a hop-picking machine or a green leaf-eating insect. It is a little pet name adopted by myself and a fellow hopper.

It means I hop from one relationship with a man to another. As soon as I am done with one, I move almost immediately on to the next... no downtime, sometimes they even overlap. During my entire adult life, I have never been alone... except for one brief period of a few months when I was miserably lonely and constantly on the look out for someone to fill my void.

Until recently I had classified my being a hopper as nothing more than a genetic idiosyncrasy, but not necessarily detrimental. I now realize my habitual behavior borders on unhealthy and destructive. OK... it more than borders, IT IS unhealthy and destructive.

Even when I thought I had got lucky and hopped into a healthy relationship, eventually I was faced with the truth of yet another unhappy end. Not because the men I chose were always terrible human beings, but because they weren’t necessarily right for me and I never took the time to determine this between hops.

Moreover, if I happened to be in a bad spot in my life when I hopped (which is generally the case for me... no relationship = despair) well it doesn’t matter who I hopped to saint or psycho. If God had put the perfect man in front of me, I would have screwed it up, because I was screwed up.

Girl Power!

Did you know a female fetus develops ovaries around eight weeks gestation which contain nearly seven million eggs?!?!?! By the time a baby girl is born this number is reduced to one million and by puberty only about 400 eggs remain. Now that alone demonstrates to me a higher power... my very existence was certainly chosen if I could beat those odds!

But I also ponder the physic-spiritual-chemical-body-soul-universe link that women have with their children, especially girls... as our daughter’s carry on this link to the next generation. OK... I’ll speak clearly or at least try...

Shortly after my mother was conceived (eight weeks or so) the ONE egg which was to become 50 percent of MY own unique genetic code was there within her. This ONE egg (half of me) was carried with her for over 20 years, undergoing and experiencing the changes of her body’s internal environment.

When she had feelings of joy and sadness, anger and peace, stress, fatigue and restfulness... her body reacted chemically with each. When she learned to walk, talk, do algebra, drive a car, again there were chemical reactions occurring in her brain that developed new neural links. But the things she learned also influenced her feelings and actions, which effected her entire being. When she ate nutritiously as a small child, chose potato chips for dinner as an adolescent, or got drunk for the first time... the whole of her mind and body were effected... often in undetectable ways.

My Little Van Goghs

In 2002, I had the honor of working with Bay Area artist Judy Gittelsohn putting paint brushes into the hands of individuals with developmental disabilities. I wrote the grant request that went on to fund a therapeutic art program led by Judy that culminated in a gallery exhibition of some truly amazing works of art--two paintings of which hang in my upstairs hallway.

I love Judy's art and how she shares her talents. Today she continues to teach and inspire individuals with special needs through the Art for Well Beings program in Palo Alto, California.

What I learned from Judy and the years I worked with adults with developmental disabilities at Kainos was that creativity is not limited by disability. Painting increases self-esteem, boosts confidence, reduces stress, improves fine motor skills, and provides an outlet for feelings, while enhancing communication and social skills.

Art therapy is used to treat multiple conditions including bipolar, posttraumatic stress and learning disorders in children and adults. In addition to helping enhance mental and emotional health, art therapy can increase self-awareness and cognitive abilities and aid in healing traumatic emotional experiences. Art therapy can also reduce pain, tension and anxiety, and is used with patients who suffer from chronic, debilitating, and terminal illnesses.

When I asked my kiddos today if anyone wanted to paint, I got a resounding YES, YES, YESSSS! My children love any opportunity to don their paint smocks and get messy. An even greater thrill filled them when they found out they would get to use the-paints-that-don‘t-wash-out-of-your-clothes... oooooooo. With brushes in hand and paints mixed, art quieted the masses. Perfecting our canvas was a cooperative effort, in both patience (mostly mine being tried) and creativity. But the results were amazing. And for a brief period, all was tranquil in our little loony bin.

The Prodigal Daughter

Two Sundays ago, I loaded my kids in the car, picked up my sister and four-year old niece, and headed to church. Now this scene wouldn't generally seem strange, but I haven't personally been to church for more years than I care to state out loud, except the random wedding and well--TRUE CONFESSION: My children have NEVER been to church. Told you I was raising a bunch of heathens... cringe and judge me if you must... I am sure I deserve that.

Many moons ago, I ended a relationship with someone who was physically, verbally and emotionally abusive and the Catholic church that I was a member of at the time made me feel, in no uncertain terms, that my leaving him was unacceptable... well I SPITEFULLY turned my back on my church, organized religion and God.

I spent years with a spiritual void growing ever greater inside of me. In my heart, even though I publicly denied it, I needed, wanted, craved a spiritual connection. At first my anger caused me to withdraw from what had always been a certainty in my life. Then I became openly reproachful, thinking I was smarter than or somehow above religion.

But I always felt an emptiness. This cavity grew, leaving me feeling hollow and hopeless. But I continued to feel a pull. And slowly but surely I have found my way back, in little bits and pieces. Peace is settling back into my heart, and I feel hope in a way that gives me new purpose.

So what does my 12-year old say when I asked her, “What did you think of the service?”

Two-week and One-day Stay at the Lunatic Lodge

For one week now, the three little people in my life have brawled and squawked, screamed and grumbled on and on about one another. The oldest baits the youngest, the middle child wails, someone pushes, another shoves. They scratch, taunt and glare as I beg them to get along... and the beat goes on. We are blessed with a two-week plus one extra day spring break here in Chandler. Oh joy...

Not a moment’s peace... one week was manageable, I filled the time with my limited budget, but two weeks and a day... are they insane? And the week they return, they have Monday off, go back for three days and are off again on Friday.

Even if I had a limitless budget, I couldn’t possibly keep them busy enough. My children honestly spend more time and effort combating each other than they do on any other pursuit. This morning it was the wrongful accusation of a stolen doll, tattle-tailing about un-brushed teeth, and, “It’s not fair, they won’t let me be the caboose! I want to play choo-choo too!”

Our afternoon frolic to the park, was rained out... and as I write I can hear pounding feet on the second floor and the high pitched squeal of my son... delight or rage? That is yet to be determined... I better go check.

After checking, it turns out that it was my younger daughter who was screaming. When I inquired what the problem was, she started sniveling that, “They were laughing at me.”

“Well, isn’t that better than them throwing things at you,” I say trying to make light of the situation, salvaging what had been a 1-hour long stint with negligible fighting.

Finding myself Single

A few days ago as I was writing a blog post and roaming the Internet until 3:00 in the morning, I noticed that my husband had changed his 'Relationship Status' on Facebook to Single.

He only did this a couple weeks ago, but I started wondering who else had seen this. And not that it mattered who has seen it, but it is kind of strange that I didn't notice it for days. But if it's out on Facebook, well then it is fair game Hon and I can write about it here on my blog... I promise to be nice :-)

I wasn’t going to write about it directly. I wanted to keep it private for now and just skirt around it. But anyone who knows me and has seen any of my recent articles, may have read between the lines and wondered what was going on anyway...

In October, we will have been married for 15 years. We have known each other for over 18 years... and we have three wonderful children. When you get a divorce (yes... that’s right we are getting a divorce) it is your children you worry about the most. You stay together and keep trying long after you should have thrown in the towel and stopped making each other miserable... because of the children.

At least I know that my husband and I will remain partners for life in raising and supporting our children even after our divorce. My oldest daughter already knows, and seems to be handling it ok. When we told her it was almost as if she already knew and was somewhat relieved. Kids aren‘t fooled by our idiotic attempts to pretend something is what it isn’t. We have both talked with her, making sure she can say or ask whatever she needs without ever blaming herself for our failure.

Honey Bug

buzz
    away
  busy bee
  hum low to me
  my honey bug shares his sweet serenade
    there is no place his song does not invade
  bustle about
    in and out
  buzz to
    me







(Artwork by Max: Honey Bug, 2008)


I wanted to balance my depressing poem from yesterday with something more uplifting to match my present mood. I love this drawing that my son created in preschool; I framed it and it sits on my mantel in our family room. He told me it was a Honey Bug...So cute.

I have long held a love and fascination for bees... Bees have been around for millions of years, they communicate with dance, build hives with hexagonal cells that can be coaxed into sculpture, and pollinate 30% of the world's food supply. I have a friend who was stung by nearly 2,000 bees and lived! I have only been stung once by a bee, but it is said that beekeepers seldom suffer from arthritis or rheumatism.

Onomatopoeia: The Sounds of Life

Actually finding an opportunity to return emails or check online accounts is nearly impossible for me. I've tried to teach my children that it is like when mommy is on the phone..... DO NOT interrupt! But they rarely observe that rule...so when I found myself in a nearly deserted house the other day, I jumped at the chance. I was merrily typing away, when I heard....

KREEE-UNCHH... KREEE-UNCHH..... KREEE-UNCHH

What was that....?

KREEE-UNCHH... KREEE-UNCHH.....

“Sara....? What’s that noise?” She was in the next room.... although I try not to automatically assume it is always her, SHE was the only within earshot at the moment.

“Nooooothing.” she chimes back sweetly.

Hmmmmmm....... right....

KREEE-UNCHH..KREEE-UNCHH..KREEE-UNCHH... KREEE-UNCHH....

“What the heck is that?!?”

“Nothing!” she screams back a bit too defensively.

KREEE-UNCHH-KREEE-UNCHH-KREEE-UNCHH-KREEE-UNCHH-KREEE-UNCHH...

“SARA! What are you doing!?!” I demand as I marched into the adjoining room.

Jerk Reaction

I have this bad habit that I would genuinely like to change or at least reduce the frequency and intensity of its occurrence.  It causes way too much angst for me and others around me.

I have the tendency to over personalize things. I am sure it stems from low self esteem or insecurities, stuff we all suffer from in some degree or another. I personalize others actions and words, often assuming incorrectly that they are mad at me or being inconsiderate. I used to go around worrying if someone was mad or upset or what it was that I did. Luckily, with all my accumulated wisdom, I have reached a point where I just come out and ask what is going on and get it over with.

But misinterpretation isn’t my actual concern, the real problem is my big-mouth, knee-jerk, over-reaction that sometimes follows. When I feel passionate or defensive about something, my mouth leads the way, without my brain.

Here is a small-scale example: Last night I was hollering to my husband to let him know I was leaving (not for good, just for a few minutes.) I didn’t realize he was right inside the garage, as I was stepping out into the garage.

I was using volume, because earlier he had been in the front yard. I just wanted to call out to him quickly and be off. I had a hot dinner in my car that needed to be delivered to friends who had just had a baby. Stat. No time to waste.

When he said, “WHAT?” in what I perceived to be a terse, irritated tone, for no good reason, well I got upset and left in a huff.

Later he apologized and it turns out, I had startled him. He was trying to get into the house to answer me, but I was on top of him before he knew it. He wasn’t mad and didn’t even realize he had sounded that way.

See how I can turn a one little word into an event when I’m feeling frantic. And though I know my over-reaction only leads to more havoc, I seem to keep repeating it. Barely four days before I managed to skew things all sideways with my daughter’s teacher. It started when she sent me the following innocuous email:

Breaking in the Day

I am just wondering, how many people made their bed this morning?  Not me.  I’m lucky if maybe I make it two times a week in the actual AM portion of a given day, possibly one or two more times a week I might get it made by the afternoon and well the rest of the time, it gets left as a rumpled toss of blankets... perfect for jumping.

I never really thought (or honestly cared) about it much, but something a friend shared this morning at a meeting, made me rethink certain rituals we perform at the crack of dawn and the impact they have on the rest of our day.

He said that in order to start off in the right direction each morning, he has to make his bed. He pulls up the sheets, then folds over the bedspread, yanks and smoothes out the wrinkles, ending with a couple of good smacks to fluff up the pillows.  For him that simple ceremony brings a sense of order and focus before heading into a new day.

I was like hmmmmm, yea right..... order and focus.... in the morning, before coffee, with three kids to get ready and out of the house? I wasn’t convinced, but I kept thinking about it all day.

My morning ritual goes a little something like this... As soon as my children’s school comes into sight, I gun my minivan through the 15 miles-per-hour school zone, kick my kids out on the curb and race for the hills howling with joy, before anyone can catch me and give my heathens back!

Just kidding, really, that was just a fantasy joke.  But some days I do feel like that though... as if I just can’t get rid of them soon enough. It’s always amazing to me how less than two hours from waking to drop off can be so stressful.

Pulling Away, Rolling Away

I suppose we each choose a different time, a different way to assert our independence.  A rite of passage. And right on schedule, my oldest has began pushing the boundaries, just enough to make me worry about the future, recalling all too clearly what I myself managed to try and get away with.

Last night she was supposed to go to the mall with a friend and her family, but there was a last minute change. Instead of calling me, she waited for me to track her down.  Now I would have been fine with the new plan, had I been given the opportunity... But I wasn’t! So of course I can’t help putting on my motherly authority like armor, beginning her lecture over the phone before she even got home.

“She’s grounded tomorrow and we should take away phone!” I blast off at my husband as we awaited her return.

Gently trying to quell my windup to a full tirade, he suggested, “Why don’t we wait until tomorrow to decide what to do?” while giving me his all-knowing, seen-it-happen-before nod.

“Why!?! She lied. She didn’t do what she was supposed to do. She...”

“I just think it would be better if we avoid a big fight tonight. We’ll let her know that we will talk about it in the morning,” my husband offers, trying again to reach the rational part of me.

Fine. But when my 12-year old entered the front door wearing make up, which she knows she is not allowed to wear yet... Well, I had to do everything I could to grit my teeth and not start yelling.

She is pulling away, claiming her independence, growing up. It’s hard for me, because she has always wanted to be at my side, my shadow.  But even though she wants to go and do, when she returns to the comfort of the nest, she has to have affirmation that I miss her and love her and need her. For me it’s a comfort to know that she’s not quite ready to take the full leap.

Behind the Lens - Part 2

So about that day, the day I took one of my most treasured pictures of my chicklets... What doesn’t show in their angelic faces? What really happened? (If you are thoroughly lost with this post, you should read Behind the Lens - Part 1.)

Obviously I was tired and out of sorts that day, but I needed to get the pictures taken... so I could have them developed and ready to go on to our Christmas cards... and I was running out of time.  I had an entire roll of black & white film and one color roll as well. Yes, it was before I owned a digital camera, which might have saved me... and my family...

We started in our back yard in their coordinating outfits.... a few up against the tree, a few sitting here, a few more over there on the pile of leaves... On and on it went, and now guess what, it’s time for the color shots. Lets do all the poses over again just to make sure we get a good one.  My ever-patient hubby was helping herd our three youngins around, encouraging them with the guise that we were almost finished.

A good amount of the time, I was barking orders... open your eyes, don’t smile so big, hold still, look at the camera... JUST GREAT, now I have to take another one... On and on it went some more. My poor kiddos were getting so sick of it and I was escalating. Louder, more impatient, angrier, loosing control...

With less than ten frames left on the last roll, I suggested we move to the front yard. ‘Suggested’ that’s a nice way of putting it. Actually, it was more of a demand that they didn’t dare refuse. “If you would just hurry up, it wouldn’t take so d---- long and we could be done with this sh--!”  I couldn't just take a few of my husband or the house or a tree.... no, no, no... every last stinking picture had to be of my children.  It wasn’t developing into pretty situation... not pretty at all.

Behind the Lens - Part I

This much loved picture of my children sits in my living room.  I took it myself in our backyard over four years ago in late November.  Recently, I was reminded of the day I took this photo, because I was posting it to my Facebook page.  The caption I wrote under it went something like this:  There is a story behind this picture, maybe I will tell it someday...

For the last few days, I have reflected on memories that surround this photograph, memories that weigh on my mind.  What you see in a snapshot can sometimes be deceiving.  The cute little faces with their cherub cheeks and sweet smiles.  Such innocence...  It’s amazing that I was able to get this picture at all, considering the real mood and events that went along with it.

First I need to go back few weeks before it was taken.  I had to take my son to a routine doctor’s appointment and my daughter came along. Previous experience taught me to be prepared... a big bag of snacks, colors, paper, books... anything to keep my daughter engaged so that I could actually converse with the doctor.

That day was no different than prior visits.... taxing at best....  After Max was weighed, my daughter headed for the scale and began bouncing up and down on it....once in the examination room, she could not be deterred from standing on the swiveling physician’s stool.... then she moved on to opening each drawer and cabinet.  Finally (ignoring the clearly posted prohibition) I blew up a latex glove for her amusement.

In an Ello world...

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Last Thursday I made a post about my tendency to get locked onto something and ignore my family and at the end of that post I made a resolution to spend more time with my kids.  So I wanted to update you on that promise.

On Friday evening, Saturday, Sunday and Monday (because they were off school ) I did go out of my way to really be there. I made a decision not to write or post to my blog, because I have realized in the last month I just can't do both at the same time.

If I am composing or tweaking a post or my site, I am absorbed, paying no attention to them... If they need me, I ask them to wait or I become impatient with the interruptions or irritated by the bickering in the next room.  So I am going to save it for when they are in school or in bed.

This weekend we spent time together doing necessary things (cleaning two fish tanks and writing thank you cards) and fun stuff (building an Ello mansion and bike riding).  It wasn't forced interaction, but I was at a point where I had to set a boundary for myself:  I didn’t allow myself to get on the computer and zone out...OK OK...I Facebooked at little... just a little....

My mother lives here, but we don’t know where she is . . .

A searing pain has taken up residence between my shoulder blades today. Probably because I have not had one single minute, or second today that wasn't spent doing, going, making, fixing, working, helping. No relaxing, resting or meditating. And if I remember correctly, not much laughing, few smiles and once near tears. Even when I actually had the opportunity to catch my breath and shift gears, I didn't choose to slow down, I just pushed on to the next task. Even at dinner, my brain was reeling through my mental lists.

That is so ADD. It is impossible for me to turn my brain off. I fixate on an activity until it is complete, often to the detriment of my family. I ignore my kids, irritate my husband, forget my dogs and disregard housekeeping until my mission is utterly complete. I just find it unbearable to stop until I am finished.... painting, sewing, blogging, whatever my newest pursuit may be.

Finding an Itty-Bit of Zen

You know how most people look forward to the weekend. Time off. No work.  I sometimes have mixed feelings.  For me weekends mean running around juggling my children’s sporting events, laundry, cleaning up my house, only to have my kids make more messes, grocery shopping, planning and cooking three meals a day...  And all five of us at home, together, in one house, under one roof, grating on one another, bickering, fighting, yelling, screaming.

My baby turned 7

Max turned 7 on New Year's Eve. I just can't believe it.

With each passing year I feel less needed. How long can I still pinch his booty? When will it be inappropriate for me to snuggle up in bed with him, to help him get dressed, to kiss the soft spot of his temple. And when will some girl break his heart?

I ache to hold on to him forever, but it is already too late for that... The double edged-sword of being a mother. From the moment you give birth, you must begin letting go... you deliver them, then they crawl away, they step away, they run away, go off to school... It just goes on and on.

Truthfully, I get so caught up in what is slipping away, I forget to hold on to what I have right now.  And I am sure that I will be lamenting the loss of 'what is happening now' in time too.

I have to get my priorities straight and remember to be present. PRESENT. PRESENT. PRESENT. I promise... starting tomorrow morning... well my chicklets are already in bed, so I can fuss on what has passed tonight and focus on the here and now tomorrow.  I promise.  It is hard though.... but I promise to try.