The Inside Press

Magazines serving the communities of Northern Westchester

Life Lessons

Reclaiming Motherhood

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Sabra Staudenmaier  PHOTO By Carolyn Simpson

As a small girl, I had big ideas about being a mom on Mother’s Day.  The day would begin with breakfast served to me in bed by little ones in matching pajamas. We would cuddle together as I opened crafty gifts and read homemade cards. We would spend the day enjoying the beauty of our bond. It would be the best day of the year. A celebration of togetherness.

When I became a mom and Mother’s Day came around, a celebration was the last thing on my mind. What was there to celebrate? The never-ending pile of laundry I faced daily? The ever-present crumbs on the floor of my car? Yes, I loved my kids. But motherhood,  at least my motherhood, not so much. Reality came with a mess in the kitchen from breakfast preparation. There was glitter all over my bed from the home-made cards. Even more work that I didn’t want to be doing. What I wanted on Mother’s Day was a break from it all. I was trying to survive; I didn’t have the energy to celebrate. 

Before becoming a mom, I saw the role as a powerful place to be. I saw the mother as the leader of the home, loved and respected for her guidance. After a decade and a half, I was experiencing the opposite of this. I felt disempowered. How could I be strong doing something that was so draining? A 24- hour, seven days a week job with no vacation. Three kids taking turns having meltdowns and making messes all over the place. I didn’t need to celebrate motherhood, I needed to be rescued from it. 

What was happening? 

I was teetering on the edge of burnout. I had been so focused on my role as a mom that   I stopped taking care of myself. I thought that a good mom was one who sacrifices herself for her family. All I needed was for my kids to be ok and that would somehow make everything else, including me, ok. I was clearly doing something wrong. I could feel my foundation crumbling. 

The problem wasn’t motherhood, it was the way I was doing it. I was looking at it from the top down. It was like I was building a building starting at the penthouse floor when I needed to start at the foundation. I was the foundation.

I knew something had to change. The quality of my life depended on it. I had to start taking better care of myself. Once I understood this, I was able to rebuild my motherhood by strengthening myself.

The first step I took was I started lifting weights three to five times each week.  I became physically strong, and physical strength set me on the right track. My mood improved. From there, my entire motherhood fell into line. I became the manager of my house, delegating housework rather than doing it all. I took control of my finances. I built new skills. I rested and recovered as needed. 

And then what happened? My motherhood experience transformed from one of disempowerment to one of strength. When I felt physically strong, I felt capable. Every aspect of my life began to bloom. I was in a role I didn’t need to escape from, not even for one day.

Motherhood is a big job, and the circumstances continue to change. While old issues remain new ones, like managing technology, social media and Covid, accrue. I have discovered that having an amazing family and home isn’t enough. It all must be managed in a way that isn’t depleting and exhausting.

This Mother’s Day, look at where you are on your journey. Do you want to celebrate motherhood or escape from it? 

If your experience is the one you’ve dreamed of, fantastic. If it isn’t then it’s time to make some changes. I invite you to join me for my podcast Banishing Mom Burnout. This is a podcast dedicated to getting moms out of depletion and into a position of strength and power. There is a way to reclaim motherhood. If I did it, so can you. Now, that’s something to celebrate!

Our Mom & The Bouquet of Peace

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After you lose your mother, Mother’s Day becomes a somber day of reflection. Our mother is gone 21 years now. She died from lung cancer at the age of 56–a year younger than I am today. It was strange for me when I realized I’m older than my mother would ever be. Still, I reflexively reach for my phone to call her whenever something good or bad happens. Then, remind myself, with phone in hand, she’s not on the other end.

Her life was brief, but the life lessons she instilled in her three girls come back to us constantly. Sometimes, her lessons come slowly, subtly, and, other times, they slap us right in the face. I cannot express how much I love when that happens. Belonging to an Irish Catholic family, living in the Bronx, my mother was the eldest of six. Her life was filled with a steady stream of laundry–much of it done by hand. So, when she married, she insisted on squeezing a washer and a dryer into our already cramped kitchen. It would finally free her of the laborious chores of her childhood.

When I was 11, our parents separated. My mom, two sisters, and I would spend many years in our kitchen talking over the vibrational whir of the washer and the thunderous tumbling of the dryer. At dinnertime, she’d stop the machines mid-cycle so we could have some quiet conversation. Even after working twelve hours a day, six days a week, our mom always made time to sit at the kitchen table and ask about our day. The image of her reaching over to pull open the dryer door, without getting out of her chair, is forever etched in my memories. 

Right there, in our groovy 70s kitchen with its loud orange and yellow geometric, metallic wallpaper and knock-off Saarinen white-round table with matching bucket chairs, hung a print of Picasso’s Bouquet of Peace. Since I was, as my mom would say, ‘the artistic one,’ I had trouble with the drawing’s simplicity. I mean, I was 12 and could draw a more lifelike image of a bouquet of flowers. It perplexed me as much as it intrigued me. As a teen, I found myself researching Pablo Picasso and the phases of his work. His earlier work was spot-on realistic. So, clearly, he knew how to draw and paint, but the influences of the time, lead him to break free from realism and delve into cubism, and, eventually, he turned to painting in a childlike manner. I also learned he painted The Bouquet of Peace in response to the peace demonstrations taking place in Stockholm in 1958.

Our kitchen table was the roundtable of our world. Under the watchful eye of The Bouquet of Peace, it’s where our single bra-burning, bellbottom-wearing, liberal-leaning mother created a safe space for her three girls to talk about anything and everything. Nothing was off-limits. It’s where she celebrated our rite of passage into womanhood, and, subsequently, where we complained about our cramps and pimples. It’s where we learned to put on makeup. It’s where we cried over boys. It’s where we talked about our mother’s limited paycheck and how, if we wanted a new pair of Jordache jeans or a new pair of Candies, we had to work for it.

The response to a piece of artwork is typically an emotional one–even if it’s no response at all. Picasso’s flowers were always waiting to greet me in the morning. I’d stare at it while eating my Cheerios. My mother loved the cheerful nature of it and how it represented a sweet gesture of one person giving to another. She shared with me how the giving of something as simple as a bouquet of flowers could bring much joy to the recipient. In those moments, my mother was teaching us the art of the giving, the art of simple beauty, and the art of appreciating art. 

So, when I noticed my sister hung that very painting in her laundry room, it bothered me. Why would she choose to hang a significant piece from our childhood in such an obscure place? Then…BAM!!! It hit me. My sister got it right. It was the perfect place, right next to the whoosh of washer and the melodic tumbling of the dryer. Like I said, I love when that happens.