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.

My Soapbox: LEAVE WOMEN ALONE!!

There is something seriously wrong with the world right now.

I began  to realize this fact the day that I signed onto Facebook and saw the article that shall live in infamy; "Plus-sized model fired for being too fat". As it turns out, this "plus-sized" model in question is a size ten and the "new plus size" is a size 8. I must have read the article ten times, convinced that I must have read it wrong. When I finally realized I hadn't, I considered pinching myself really hard because I obviously needed to wake up from this horrible nightmare where everything in the world was completely backwards. Size 8 is not plus-sized, it's not even big. At all. It's average at worst and even then it's on the small side of average. It's the "after" picture, not the "before" picture. It is, without a doubt, absolutely ridiculous and sets yet another impossible-to-achieve standard of beauty for women. Just what we need. Thanks for that.

Weeks passed, and I managed to lick my wounds. And then Karl Lagerfeld had to open his mouth.

Anyone who has talked to me for longer than five seconds knows that I absolutely love Adele. I mean come on, who doesn't?! Well, apparently not designer Karl Lagerfeld who thinks Adele is "a bit too fat". And that's all he has to say about her. Never mind the fact that she has an amazing voice, ridiculous song-writing abilities, is hilarious and not to mention a freaking knock-out. All he sees when he looks at this amazingly talented woman is fat. Granted, he is a fashion designer who is used to being surrounded by people who think that a stalk of celery and air is the equivalent to a Thanksgiving dinner and he probably thinks anyone beyond a size zero is a fat load. That's the "reality" in his sick, sad little world. In the meantime,  back in the actual real world, did anyone else notice that it's totally okay for him to look like a Muppet and criticize everyone else's appearance? I sincerely hope that I run into that guy someday. I'll take him to a buffet, tie him to a chair and force him to watch me eat every last, delightful, greasy bite while explaining that eating and exercise, not starving yourself, is the way to go through life while maintaining your sanity. That healthy is more important than skinny. That real women eat and real women like it. So back off, fancy pants.

I wish I could say that my soapbox ends here. That the men of the world realized that they were all making us feel horrible and banded together to support the greatness that is the women of the world. But unless you live under a rock, you know that that's not how this story ends. Instead there seemed to be some kind of universal mutual decision that if judging us by our looks couldn't break us, then judging us by our lifestyle choices might do the trick.

I have a theory. Based on the recent comments of Rick Santorum, Newt Gingrich, and Rush Limbaugh I can only assume that they've all given up the facade of being decent human beings, have given in to the "shock factor" of politics a bit too much, and overall just want Obama to win a re-election. Don't get me wrong, the end result is just fine with me, but I would greatly appreciate it if they could leave my rights as a human being out of their campaign. That's right guys, my rights as a human being. I know I'm just a lowly woman who needs to shut up and get back to the kitchen where she belongs, but I do actually have constitutional rights (you know, guys! the constitution! Forefathers! Equality! Why do the Republican buzz words suddenly lose meaning for you when they come from a  woman??). I should pause right here to say that I really, really  hate to make this a Republican thing, but it is what it is. I know a lot of conservative Republicans and they're even shocked by the nonsense going on right now. Even Sarah Palin finds your actions appalling!  So let's break down the issues, shall we?

First and foremost, planned parenthood and abortions are not necessarily mutually exclusive. In other words, you can go to Planned Parenthood for other things. Great things, in fact! Things like free healthcare, free consoling, and free contraception. Oh but wait, contraception is bad, right? We shouldn't be allowed to be on birth control because if we are, more babies will be born out of wedlock! And need food stamps! And health care! And government assistance! Oh my! 

But hang on a second, let's deconstruct that sentence. If we are on birth control (which prevents pregnancy) then more babies will be born out of wedlock (more babies? I thought we were preventing pregnancy here..?). Maybe it's just because I'm a lowly, stupid woman (see above, re: needs to shut up and get back to the kitchen) but that makes zero sense to me. Enter Rush Limbaugh, who explains so kindly, intelligently, and respectfully, that the solution to the problem is so simple! Stop giving the sluts birth control! Because nothing stops babies being born out of wedlock like not using birth control, right? Oh and a panel discussion about birth control rights where only men could go and speak? Classy. I bet you wish you could still order for us in restaurants and refer to us as your "little lady", right?

Oh I know, you guys wish we could go back to the "good old days" when "women acted like ladies" and a baby born out of wedlock only happened to the "bad" family and no one else. When we were good little girls who gave a crap if you thought we were fat, and immediately starved ourselves the instant our looks weren't exactly to your liking. Back when we aimed to please. Better yet, back when all you had to do was hit us over the head with the biggest rock you could find and drag us back to your cave. Good times.

Guys, please, please explain to me what is it about women that you're so opposed to! Are you intimidated? Threatened? Or are you just plain stupid? Isn't it bad enough that women are horrible to each other without you chiming in?! Furthermore, don't you realize that by saying and doing these things that you're giving the kind, considerate, good guys a bad name? That you're dragging them down with you? Or do you just not care?

Here's my rant in a nutshell: Do not take away our rights. Re-read a little thing called the 19th amendment (Yes! We can vote! And we sure as hell aren't voting for you!). Do not call us fat. Do not call us sluts. In fact, erase both of those words from your already limited vocabulary and never, ever use them again. Remember that we are human beings just like you. We will fight for ourselves and our daughters and our daughter's daughters. Stop foolishly attaching your names to the words "Christian values". Because if that's what you have, then you're sure not acting like it. Most of all, remember who brought you into this world. That's right, women. We brought you into it and we can take you out of it. LEAVE US ALONE.

Thanks, I feel much better now.

The Florence To Your Stanley

I'll never forget the day I met the guy who would change my life forever.

It was a few days before Christmas in the year 2000. I was sixteen-years-old and idly walking around the mall Christmas shopping for my friends when I came across a store that I had never been in before. I probably would have kept walking, but displayed in the window were little plastic reindeer that released small, round chocolate candies from their rear ends; "pooping reindeer", the perfect gift for one of my best friends who had the best sense of humor out of anyone I knew (and still does!). When I walked in the door, I found myself face-to-face with my future husband and father of my children, smiling his giant, 1,000 watt smile at me and asking me if I needed help finding anything.

Suddenly I could not force the words "pooping reindeer" to come out of my mouth.  

Instead I asked for something safe and non-offensive and stood talking to him for as long as I could before he had to resume working (and then bought my pooping reindeer elsewhere. Oddly enough, they turned out to be everywhere that year). After that, the store where he worked wound up closing and I thought I'd never see that random, charming guy again. Thankfully I was wrong. It took two years, but we did wind up meeting again: When he hired me to work for him. Not exactly the way I was hoping things would go originally, but it wound up being the best-case-scenario. We worked together and became really good friends for two years before we dated. During that time, I dated other guys, but always found myself comparing them to Josh and they all fell short. He was the guy I could never get out of my head. It wasn't because he was funny, intelligent, or cute (even though he's all of those things) but because at the heart of it all, he was such a good guy. It was impossible not to fall madly in love with him.

By now you're probably wondering what this story has to do with the title of this blog.

Five years ago today, I married that random, charming guy from the mall in the world's most imperfectly perfect wedding. While five years feels like a long time to us, I realize that we're only just beginning, thanks to a couple of new friends of mine. Their names are Stanley and Florence, they're in their mid-eighties and they've been married for sixty-five years. I met them in my history class, when they shocked all of us in the class by enrolling in a 300-level class for the fun of it, despite both having multiple degrees. Every day they shuffle in together, and Stanley helps Florence out of her coat and pulls her chair out for her. They sit, with their heads bent together, talking animatedly to each other until class starts. Whenever one answers a question correctly, the other smiles and gently pats the speaker's hand. It's hard not to watch them. They fascinate everyone in my class.

One day before class I asked Florence what the secret to their sixty-five year marriage was and her answer surprised me. She smiled and gestured around our small, cramped classroom and said "This! The second your mind dies, your marriage dies with it".  Not "love", or "honesty", or "sense of humor", but knowledge is what keeps them together. I love that. It's not to say that those other things aren't important, but they found what it is that bonds them and they go with it. In a world with seventy-two day marriages and a new celebrity divorce every five minutes, it's nothing short of inspirational. We should all be so lucky to turn out like Stanley and Florence.

No relationship is perfect, and our relationship is no exception to that rule. We get mad, we fight, but at the end of the day we still love each other. He's still the guy with the great smile who can make me laugh when I feel like crying, whose love and support is truly unconditional, and the best husband and father I could have ever hoped for. I don't know what the next sixty years will bring, but I know who will be by my side for all of it. No matter what happens, I will be the Florence to his Stanley. It's us against the world.

And I'm the luckiest person alive.