The parenthood journey is a little different for Mom than it is for Dad

When you embark on the perilous journey from couplehood to parenthood, it's helpful to remember that your husband is not traveling on exactly the same road as you are. At times, you will look at him and think perhaps he is not traveling even in the same universe. Muddling through the first months of parenthood is a bit like someone has plunged both you and your husband's heads underwater and is holding them there as you thrash about snatching desperately at diaper wipes, bottles of formula and fleeting moments of sleep. Eventually, you're able to come up for a few moments of air. Of course, your husband, having not actually given birth, is usually able to climb out of the water completely, dry off, and go back to work for a good portion of the day. He soon re-acclimates to the adult world where people speak in complete sentences, go about their day without carrying an infant and overstuffed diaper bag everywhere they go, and get actual breaks for things like eating and using the bathroom. Meanwhile, mom's world morphs into this time warp where regular bathing is an elusive luxury, uninterrupted sleep is the holy grail and all personal care functions – including eating – must be accomplished with only one hand. Somehow we master all this due, I imagine, to that maternal instinct that dwells somewhere deep within us. (We also suddenly realize why mothers of another era were so often prescribed drugs like speed to help them manage.) Some of us even manage to slip back into the work world to bask in the joy of being harangued by bosses and co-workers who, we at least can be assured, won't spit up on us or need our help in the potty (unless we happen to work with small children or patients). When we manage to get through a day, we feel a bit like Indiana Jones, face smeared with the sweat, dirt and grease of battling a pit full of snakes and a boulder bearing down on us. And then we wonder what the heck that husband of ours is doing sitting on the couch, watching TV? One look at us with our wild eyes and dirt-smeared faces and they're scared to death while we wonder why they're not offering to do the dishes. But there is good news. The children grow up. They start walking on their own two feet. They start feeding themselves. They even start asking Daddy to do things for them. Daddies are usually quite proud of themselves when they pitch in. It's best to encourage them by allowing them to believe they have helped a great deal. In time, the workload levels out – in large part because the children start taking on more responsibility for themselves. But by trial and error (and perhaps a few mommy breakdowns) Daddy figures out how to be really helpful. He even starts anticipating how to help without being asked. It takes time, but they get there. And you love them all the more for it when they do.

Everything is the mother's fault

This is a lesson you might recall from your own childhood. Without fail, just about anything that goes wrong in a child's life is the mother's fault. Sometimes it's the child who lays the blame: “You were supposed to pick me up early. . . . You didn't dress me in the right color. . ... You said you would leave the light on. ... You brought the wrong baseball glove.” Other times it's your spouse: “The children should have gone to bed earlier. ... The basement is a mess. ... You should make the kids pick up their toys before bed.” Your parents will tell you what you're doing wrong as well: “You should be letting the baby cry for 10 minutes ... They aren't potty-trained already?” Complete strangers will weigh in: “If you don't lose the pacifier, he'll have buck teeth. ... You shouldn't stop breast-feeding until the baby is a year old.” Now I suppose all this blame makes sense. A mother is often the center of a child's world and therefore worthy of absorbing the bulk of the blame as well the praise for what happens in a child's life – though there always seems to be so much more of the former. I've often thought what a good idea it would be to have child psychiatry a regular part of annual well child doctor's visits. After the vaccinations and the eye-chart test, the child could lie down on a chaise and spill for the doc all the ills he feels mom has inflicted on him. “My mom won't leave the hall light on at night and the noises outside my window scare me.” We could take care of the problem right there at age 5 and avoid having the same conversation with a therapist 30 years later and deciding that mom's hall light failings are to blame for the adult child's foibles. Anyhow, I tired of this whole “It's all the mom's fault thing” some time ago. When anyone in my family starts in with it, I stop them right there ... and agree. “Yes,” I say, “It is my fault. It's all my fault and always will be. However, now that we've established that, we're going to have to solve this problem. Any suggestions?”

Mothers can become human garbage disposals

Running a household is all about resource management: money, time and space in the refrigerator. With all that a modern mom has to do, there is little I enjoy less than having to drag my 3-year-old with me to the grocery store more than once a week. I try to be very careful about noting how many meals and snacks I'll be preparing for how many people each week. Then I try to make sure I buy just enough supplies. I used to love those warehouse style stores like Costco and BJ's and their enormous cases of paper towels and Cheetos. It was such a lovely feeling knowing that we always had enough paper products and juice boxes. But then the awkwardness of trying to jimmy those oversized cases of water, diapers and toilet paper into those huge grocery carts without crushing the child riding along began to convince me that being constantly oversupplied maybe wasn't a necessity. I began to enjoy having extra space in my storage room rather than forgetting that I had more than enough ketchup and jelly to last the year. Now my goal is to fill the pantry and fridge at the beginning of the week and have it rather empty by the end of the week. To this end, I often find myself finishing off the foods the rest of my family has forsaken. Sometimes, I figure that I can get another meal out of my leftovers if my lunch consists of what my children left on their plates. I find using the Braun mixing wand my mother bought me is great for blending over-ripe bananas into smoothies. When I've exhausted my family's patience with the last of the leftover chicken, I put what's left into a soup and toss in any vegetables that no longer look pretty enough to tempt my kids. I'm constantly calling my father-in-law – a chef trained in food safety – to ask if my leftovers are still OK to eat. He almost always answers “When in doubt throw it out.” It's also good advice to toss some of the more fatty foods my kids leave behind. I'm often horrified to realize my lunch consisted of cold macaroni and cheese, a few left over chicken nuggets and what was left in a juice box. And then I think to myself, I probably should have fed my kids something better as well.

Motherhood makes you romanticize other eras

When I complain that I have to do dishes three times a day, laundry daily and wash floors at midnight (Cinderella, Cinderella) my husband likes to joke: “You don't like chores? Good thing you weren't born on Little House on the Prairie.”As romantic as I dreamt Laura Ingalls Wilder's 19^th century pioneer childhood was, I figured my husband had a point. Though, I don't think Laura and company enjoyed their washboards and broomsticks any more than I enjoy my more modern conveniences. But then, I discovered an era I think I really would prefer: 19th century England. Ever since the most recent remake of Jane Austen's "Pride & Prejudice" was released on DVD (I watch it on the little DVD player we use for long car trips because the rest of my family can't tolerate period pieces) I'm convinced that era has some definite advantages for stay-at-home moms. That is, stay-at-home-moms who were members of the aristocracy. Those of them who, of course, survived childbirth and avoided dying of consumption, etc. What I really envy is that household staff the Bennett girls enjoyed. I would love to relax when the doorbell rings and know that my maid – in her adorable bonnet and apron, would tell my son's playmates that he'll join them after she finishes dressing him. And she'd say it with that distinguished English accent. The neighborhood kids would be so impressed. I would love to have a coachman who would bring my minivan around when it was time for us to head out. He'd have spent the day washing it, gassing it up and checking the tire pressure. Then he'd hold out a hand to help us alight and then take us us wherever we needed to go and wait there for us until we were ready to return. When we arrived home with our parcels, we could rush inside for dinner that was prepared on fine china while we were out. Someone else would do the dishes! Our driver would bring in our packages after he finished picking up all the all the sippy cups and Legos the kids dropped under the seats. And, of course, the nasty job of cleaning bathrooms would be virtually eliminated for everyone. They didn't have indoor plumbing in 19^th century England. So ... you have to be careful what you wish for.

Motherhood is like a daily three-legged race

My son's school held its annual Field Day yesterday. As I stood on the grassy field watching my son and his classmates alternately balancing a ball atop a cone, balancing wiffle balls on a tray and jumping to the finish line with both legs in a sack, I thought what great practice this is for handling the challenges of parenthood. I often think of how much my daily adventures with kids can feel like a three-legged race. Quirky obstacles constantly pop up on the way to getting anywhere. Five minutes until the bus arrives and one shoe – the only one not caked in mud -- suddenly disappears! Ok, wear flip-flops today. Noooo! I hate flip-flops. Ok, we're going barefoot today, I'll send you with a note. Ok. I'll wear flip flops. Fifteen minutes until preschool, then swim lessons. Do we have all the necessary equipment? Swim suit, check. Swim goggles, check. Towel, check. School folder, check. School backpack, check. After school snack, check. Juice box, check. Kid in the carseat, check. We're off ... backing out of the driveway. Ooops, no diaper bag. When we finally get where we're going I notice the other moms running their own relay race. Late for the swim lesson. Park the car. Grab one kid. Slip the baby in the Baby Bjorn sling. Hoist the diaper bag out of the back seat and the swim bag from the trunk. Then, scoot, quickly as possible across the parking lot. Moms are always weighed down with bags, bottles and pockets full of tissues and baby wipes. We start to shake off all those cute accessories we onces loved to collect – strappy shoes, handbags, dangling earrings, bracelets. Long hair gets cut off or goes up in a ponytail. Clothes have got to be wash and wear because they are going to see stains and spills on such a regular basis nothing is going to survive very long. At Field Day, the PTA gave every student a T-shirt to wear. Moms could use uniforms too, something with lots of pockets like those vests photojournalists wear on overseas assignments. Those new fabrics that wick moisture and dry quickly would be handy, too. Oh, and those shoes they make for hikers that you can wear in water and on land. At some point, we'd look in the mirror and say, what happened to me? I used to know how to dress. But by then, the kids might be old enough that we can sell that Baby Bjorn at a consignment shop and tell them: “Put on your own shoes. I'm going to slip into a pair of strappy sandals.”

A mother's work is much like that of Sisyphus

Sisyphus of Greek mythology was condemned to spend an eternity heaving a rock uphill only to see it careen to the bottom as soon as he reached its summit. I think often of his legend as I go about the daily list of mommy chores that once accomplished, must be started again almost immediately. Cooking, dishes, cleaning, laundry . . . cooking, dishes, cleaning, laundry. And endlessly picking things up -- toys mostly. OK, so I don't actually do all these as often as necessary. When you spend most of the day in the house with small children, they do a number on the place. The floor needs to be washed daily -- actually, several times a day. You won't be able to figure out how that sticky stuff got behind the sofa. While I'm busy with the dishes, my 3-year-old occupies herself by spreading the contents of my utensil drawer all over the family room carpet. You have to decide, pick it all up now or make it to preschool on time. The gods were punishing Sisyphus for a lack of humility. I suppose we can assume mothers are enduring a similar punishment. We have the gall to bring children into the world. It is our penance to continually pick up after them. At some point they become old enough that they should be able to pick up after themselves. But then it is up to us, of course, to remind, cajole and threaten punishment in order to get the job done. On a weary day, we give up and do it ourselves. Or we don't do it and blog about instead. There was a time where I imagine this work may have been less overwhelming. Did they always have Imaginex sets with hundreds of pieces? Did they mix their 400 Legos with their 247 Playmobil figures? Did anyone besides Mom know which pieces went back with which set? But unlike Sisyphus, when we finally follow the boulder back to the bottom of the hill, we find the ride up again is not exactly the same. We notice our children have grown a little bit more. And perhaps, they've grown tired of a toy we can now discard. Or, perhaps they've even learned a little bit about how to fold towels or scrub a dish. They will find these hidden skills suddenly useful when they finally are launched into the world. And they will find them immensely useful when they have children of their own.

Baby steps will get you where you need to go

When you make the transition from regular human to mother, one of the first things you miss is your mobility. You can't get anywhere without hauling the baby and her parapherenalia with you. This includes to the bathroom, to the kitchen and, when you're brave enough, out of the house. By the time you make your big excursion away from home, you will likely have figured out how to accomplish numerous tasks with one hand: eating, dressing, answering the phone while nursing. But shopping poses new challenges. You figure out how to park as close as possible to where the shopping carts are collected in the parking lot. You skip buying the bulky and heavy items when you're shopping with baby. But invariably, you'll find yourself in a situation where you're saying to yourself, “How did I get myself into this?” For me it was waddling out of The Home Depot clutching in one arm my daughter, who had decided she would only stop screaming if I carried her. In my other hand I held three heavy plastic bags. I had figured it was better to leave the shopping cart behind, but a few yards into the parking lot, I realized I was mistaken. The minivan seemed miles away. The handles of the plastic bags were cutting into my fingers. The muscles of the arm I had wrapped around my daughter felt like they were being pierced by tiny knives. (As I mentioned in an earlier post, upper body strength is essential to motherhood.) As the other shoppers sped by me I wondered if I'd ever make it to the car. And then it occurred to me, yes. Of course I would. I would just take baby steps. Baby steps will get me there. We may have to take breaks along the way, but eventually we will make it to the car. Since then, I discovered baby steps get me through most of the challenges motherhood presents. Most things don't get resolved by a deadline as they once did in my newspaper job. Instead, life with kids is like a long and meandering story line that resolves its conflicts in bits and pieces: potty training, recurrent ear infections, biting, shoe tying. You grow as a mother in much the same way as your baby grows. You get where you're going with baby steps.

The Calvary isn't Coming

When I was pregnant with my oldest, I was solely focused on the birth. Through all the fundus measurements and heartbeat checks at the obstetrician's office I thought only about the moment where I'd be resting on the delivery table and the doctor would hand by baby to me. After that, I figured there would be some kind of “recovery period” where my husband and mother would help me and the baby. And then, we'd be back to our routine. I envisioned us spending my summer-long maternity leave taking long walks in the “Adventurer” stroller I'd purchased with the wheels that looked as they belonged on an all-terrain vehicle. I couldn't wait to change his outfits numerous times so he could wear all the cute matching ensembles he got at his baby shower. Well, the “recovery period” has lasted seven years – another child – and counting. My husband and mother were a great help. But there is no amount of help in the world that will restore you to your routine. From birth on out, it's rock and roll with it. The first three months is a sleep deprived fog punctuated by panicky trips to the doctors office where the doctor tells you to bring your baby with a strange rash in the back door so he won't come in contact with the other sick kids in the waiting room. You'd give anything to sleep more than two hours in a row. I remember lying in bed, hearing my son's cries in the dark yet again and thinking a million dollars would be what I'd pay to be able to go back to sleep. But then he grew a little older and started to sleep through the night. I remember longing for the assurance that I'd get to take a shower everyday. But then he grew a little older and he developed a schedule. I figured out how to bathe during his nap time. I figured out how to apply make up with him in one hand and a compact in the other. There are babysitters, day care providers, spouses and grandparents to help. But there is no calvary that restores you to the old you. It's up to you. And you do figure it out.

The best preparation for motherhood is military training

I enlisted in motherhood with only the Lamaze training offered by the hospital where I delivered. I remember they had a chart with these cartoon faces that ranged from smiling to contorted with the pain of childbirth. While the epidural helped a great deal with the very painful “transition” portion of the birthing process, I've worn that contorted expression often since then. A friend of mine – a former soldier and current stay-at-home mom -- clued me in on what prepared her for the mind twisting challenges of parenthood: survival training. When she was in the military, her superiors would take a group of them into the wilderness and leave them there with nothing but a pack of provisions. They had to figure out how to survive for a week. In preparation for the unfortunate chance they might someday be captured by the enemy, her superiors would expose her to the kind of endurance tests her captors might employ. They'd play foreign music endlessly in an attempt to break her will. She said she trained herself to embrace the unfamiliar sounds, to love them. She said the same approached worked after her son was born. He'd cry endlessly and she wouldn't know how to make him stop. So she embraced the sound before it overcame her. We work out at the gym together. The trainers stop by occasionally and tell us to stop chatting and pick up the pace. She tells them to take a hike. There, with her boys in the gym's nursery, she's in charge of how much punishment she wants to take.

The best Mother's Day gift is a day off

After the handmade construction paper cards your kids make you at school, the best Mother's Day gift is a day off of work. There is no better gift than everyone you take care of each day taking care of themselves. You know this is true. The whole burnt toast delivered to sleeping mom on a tray is a Mother's Day staple. Just take the idea through the rest of the day. Tell your family: Everyone dress yourselves. Feed yourselves. Try to tie your own shoes. Try to remember all the stuff you're going to need when you leave the house. And if you are simply to small to handle it, please try to ask Dad first for help. Just this one day.

Motherhood makes you a control freak

Motherhood makes you a control freak, but you come by it honestly. No matter how you come into this job, once those children are born you are instantly responsible for everything about them. It’s up to you to make sure the right stuff is going into them and coming out of them. In the beginning, when they are very new, you obsess over every cry. What does it mean? What do they need? What do I need to do for them? Does she feel warm? Do I need to call the doctor? Oh, let’s just go to the doctor. Grab the diaper bag (is it stocked?) Get a bottle ready. Don’t forget the binky. Then they get older and can tell you what’s troubling them. They tell you all day long. You figure out how to manage by hiding the treats they’ll whine for if they see. You make certain not to mention the tentative play date you have planned to avoid a scene if it has to be canceled. You threaten to withhold a toy if they refuse to share. You attempt to choreograph your way through your chaos and almost manage until something or someone upends it – as they usually will. Then you holler, “They weren’t supposed to see those treats until later!” or “You can’t take them out without a diaper bag!” or “Don’t tell them we’re going to the park until we’re on our way there!” And then everyone gives you a funny look and calls you a “control freak.” But, when your kid heads off to the bus only to turn and find you running after him with the lunch he forgot or when your daughter discovers you remembered to pack her special blanket, they’re rather glad you’re that much in control.

Cookie crumbs can wreck your sanity

Crumbs on the carpet. Soap scum in the tub. A raspberry stain on the kitchen floor. Water spots on the mirror. Sticky stuff on the underside of the kitchen table. These are the kinds of messes that happen daily when you’re spending most of your time in the house with the kids. They’re the kinds of messes that get under your skin and scream “Your house is a mess! I hope for your sake no one pops by unexpectedly!” As you race through the essential chores of dressing, cleaning, feeding, consoling and cajoling your children you keep thinking . . . I should sweep up those crumbs . . . well, the whole kitchen floor . . . actually, the entire front hall . . . and as long as I’m at it, I should get out the mop and bucket . . . And suddenly the job is too big to fit in before it’s time to feed the kids lunch and get them to preschool on time. So here’s my new strategy: Just clean the mess that bothers you most. Don’t let your mess mock you. Just grab a damp paper towel and wipe up that one pile of crumbs. Wipe up the stickiness under the table just where you notice it. Don’t worry about getting a good look under there just now. Just pick up those crumbs on the carpet. You can get the vacuum out some other time. I know there is a science to keeping house. Author Cheryl Mendelson wrote a great book on the topic “Home Comforts: The Art & Science of Keeping House.” It’s literally a great book: a whopping 883 pages of proper housekeeping instruction. I haven’t managed to read much of it, but I’m certain Ms. Mendelson wouldn’t recommend vacuuming before you dust. But if the kids are going to be out from underfoot for only half and hour and you have only time for one or the other, definitely drag out the noisy machine that scares the bejeezus out of your little one and do that now. The dust will wait.

Stay-at-home motherhood is like running a small business and you're the only one who shows up for work

If you're a career woman thinking of ditching your day job to stay home with your children, here's a way to compare it to the work-out-of-the-home world. It's kind of like you're an entrepreneur running a small business. But every day you're the only one who shows up for work. Your customers are extremely demanding. They pay no attention at all to workers' rights laws. You are provided no breaks for meals, bathroom stops, doctors appointments, sick days. You have to take your little customers with you wherever you go and arrange safe transportations for all their appointments. You have no receptionist -- except for your answering machine -- and yet your phone rings off the hook. You run a 24-hour-a-day cafeteria and you have to be both cook, dishwasher and waitress for a particularly finicky group of diners who won't eat bread with crusts or chicken nuggets with a "funny" texture. You run a laundry service that specializes in removing grass stains from white baseball uniform pants and must have all uniforms clean for the numerous practices and games held throughout a week. You're in charge of the taxi service that not only ferries your little charges to school, practice and lessons but also packs the variety of equipment required for each event throughout the week. You have to have the car pre-packed with staples like the baseball glove and cleats, the swimming goggles and granola bars in the glove compartment. And God help the spouse who tries to switch cars on you one day to get an oil change. It's like someone misplaced your purse. Unless you're fortunate enough to hire a cleaning service like your office has to vacuum and scrub bathrooms and floors, those are the jobs you'll try to squeeze in after putting your customers to bed or on weekends when your spouse takes them to sports practice. And even if you do have a cleaning service, you're still responsible for picking up the clothes, toys, shoes, books and lacrosse sticks that somehow get strewn across the floor on a regular basis. Oh, and don't forget outdoor maintainance. Again, you might luck out and hire a landscaping service. But if not, you'll have regular lawn and garden work to tackle to keep you in the good graces of your neighbors -- whom you will need to rely on rather regularly. "Have you seen my son? He said he was going outside and now I don't see him." Ahhh! But then, when you pull an all nighter the reward is that your kid's fever finally breaks and that is always more rewarding the any accolades you might get from a boss.

Without a sense of humor, you'd die of embarrassment

I think childbirth is as messy as it is to prepare the mother for the messiness that lies ahead. One day you're wearing your best maternity work suit, the nicest shoes that still fit on your swollen feet, mascara on your lashes, your hair blown dry just the way you like it. Then suddenly your lying on a delivery bed, wearing nothing but a thin hospital gown, the sweat making your hair stick to your contorted face, breathing as rhythmically as you possibly can while a world of friends, family and strangers are all staring intently at places you never shown anyone but those closest to you. This is your "baptism by fire" into motherhood. From this point on you'll be trying to conceal you're bare breast when your infant pulls the blanket off your shoulder while nursing. You'll completely forget that morning routine you once had that involved showering, applying makeup and blow drying your hair. You'll be answering the door in spit-up covered pajamas at 2 p.m. And when you manage to leave the house you'll find yourself escaping with baby food on your shirt and your hair pulled into a ponytail. Of course your priorities will shift completely. You won't believe you ever thought it was important to always look sharp in public. You'll find infinite value in wearing clothes with lots of pockets. Instead of jewelry, you'll wear a lanyard with keys dangling from the end around your neck in order to keep both hands free. And, then this will shift, too. Your child will get a little older. You'll notice other mommies out and about in stained clothes and you'll decide to dress yourself a little better. Now, your children will embarrass you by bolting from the locker room while you're still struggling to get out of your swimsuit. They'll refuse to share with the children of people you thought you might impress. They'll throw up on the businessman sitting next to you on the plane. And this, of course, is just the beginning. But you'll handle it all with aplomb because as crazy as it gets, it never quite gets as messy as it was that day your baby arrived.

It really does help to know how to cook

My mother always tells me -- and anyone else willing to listen -- that I told her at age 16 she was done teaching me. I knew all I needed to know. Oh, do I miss those smart aleck days! As a career woman, I was clueless about most of the domestic arts. With no kids to care for, it didn't really matter. My husband could cook. But when the kids came, he was always at work at meal time. Suddenly it didn't make sense anymore to hit fast food joints for lunch or do that window delivery thing they've got going at all those chain restaurants now. With kids in the house, you want to be able to survey what's in the fridge and pantry and whip something up as fast as they get hungry and before they start burrowing into the snacks when you're not looking.

Parenthood takes incredible upper body strength

If I knew then what I know now, I would have spent my prenatal days pumping iron. It seems a mistake of nature that men should possess all the bicep, shoulder and back muscles so they can take them with them to the office where they get plenty of rest. In the meantime, their slender-armed wives haul the baby, the car seat, the stroller, the diaper bag and the baby's older brother, everywhere she goes.