The Invisible Mom

I was having one of those days. 

 

It was the kind of day that started off bad and only continued to get progressively worse.  I had promised the kids a trip to the park the night before, only to wake up to heavy, wet sleet outside which invariably killed our park plans. The disappointment of not going to the park combined with the fact that sleet doesn't make snowmen, putting the kids in absolutely foul moods. They were sensitive, irritable, and would not stop fighting.  And not just any fights, the really ridiculous ones where they both want the red plate at the same time or they can't agree on who's turn it is to feed the fish, or who stands on which stool to brush their teeth. Absurd fights, the kind that can't be distracted by crafts or cartoons, that are guaranteed to induce migraines by noon, which was precisely what happened. It was the kind of day where you begin to question what it is exactly that you do as a mother. Worse, it was the kind of day that makes you think back to your pre-baby days when your mother/grandmother/mother-in-law/random-stranger-slinging-unsolicited-advice-your-way-in-the-grocery-store warned you that motherhood was hard work and you just smiled confidently and assured them that you were up for whatever came your way. 

 

Ha. 

 

Anyway, here I was, counting down the hours to bed time (which was particularly pathetic since it was only 11:30 in the morning) with Layla standing in time-out in the corner and Ben crying it out in time-out in their bedroom, literally about to rip my hair out.  I was waiting on an email from a friend, so I decided to check my email while the kids served their time. My friend's email wasn't there, but I noticed a forward titled "The Invisible Mom" in my inbox. Ordinarily, I never read forwards or chain mail. Maybe it was because of the day I was having, or because I had already been used as both a human napkin for a peanut butter and jelly face and human tissue for a runny nose today, or because I had just stepped on a Barbie that I had asked Layla to pick up for the thousandth time, but I was feeling rather invisible at the moment and the title caught my eye. And this is what I read: 

 The Invisible Mom

It all began to make sense — the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids would walk into the room while I’m on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I’m thinking, ‘Can’t you see I’m on the phone?’

Obviously not; no one can see if I’m on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I’m invisible. The invisible Mom.
Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more! Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this??

Some days I’m not a pair of hands; I’m not even a human being. I’m a clock to ask, ‘What time is it?’ I’m a satellite guide to answer, ‘What number is the Disney Channel?’. I’m a taxi for order, ‘Right around 5:30, please.’

Some days I’m a crystal ball; ‘Where’s my other sock? Where’s my phone? What’s for dinner?’

I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history, music and literature -but now, they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again.
She’s going, she’s going, she’s gone!

One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England . She had just returned from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when she turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, ‘I brought you this.’ It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe .
I wasn’t exactly sure why she’d given it to me until I read her inscription:
‘With admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.’

In the days ahead I would read – no, devoured – the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work:
1) No one can say who built the great cathedrals – we have no record of their names.
2) These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished.
3) They made great sacrifices and expected no credit.
4) The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

A story of legend in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, ‘Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof, No one will ever see it.’ And the workman replied, ‘Because God sees.’

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, ‘I see you. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does.

‘No act of kindness you’ve done, no sequin you’ve sewn on, no cupcake you’ve baked, no Cub Scout meeting, no last minute errand is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can’t see right now what it will become.’

I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on.

The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.

When I really think about it, I don’t want my son to tell the friend he’s bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, ‘My Mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for 3 hours and presses all the linens for the table.’ That would mean I’d built a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, he’d say, ‘You’re gonna love it there…’

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we’re doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible mothers.

The deep, dark secret to motherhood is that sometimes it's not all it's cracked up to be. There are days where your kids are perfect angels and there are days where they are the kid screaming in the grocery store, and you never know which day it's going to be when you wake up in the morning. Sometimes everything feels like a struggle. There are Oscars, Grammy's, Viewer's Choice Awards, but no "Good job not losing your mind today" award or "Having the patience not to just toss your kid in front of the TV" award or "Good job getting peed on for the fifth time today and not crying" award. Ultimately, the award for being a mom is your kids.

As a mom you sacrifice absolutely everything for your kids (don't get me wrong, dads make sacrifices too, but moms sacrifice our lives, our time, our bodies, everything). We know that our sacrifices are worth it, but in day-to-day life it's so easy to lose track of why. It's easy to think of the struggles of motherhood as a belated punishment for something you must have done horribly wrong earlier in your life instead of what it actually is. A privilege.

Which is why I loved this random forward that I might have deleted if I'd been having a good day. We can't always see the work that we're doing while we're doing it, but if we do our jobs right, we'll wind up with something amazing.

To all of my invisible mom friends: Don't worry, I see you. We have a long way to go, but we can do this. Keep up the good work.