To the mom in bed, who no one sees

I have been reading many beautiful articles aimed at mothers, working and stay-at-home alike, giving the much-needed encouragement these women need. I find them kind, inspiring, and hopeful; but not for the same reasons most other parents do. In fact, most often, I want to send them to my husband, exchanging the synonyms for “mother” with everything he is as a father; because these articles talk of stained clothes and skinned knees; countless PB&J sandwiches, and trips to the park; they speak of tending to all of the things I hope to one day do. And they make me think: there has to be more to motherhood than the tasks I can’t do. So, in honor of mothers who have to do things a little differently, here is my post on the subject:

To the mom in bed, who no one sees,

Before this, you had no idea how badly you’d wish you could change a poopy diaper. No one would believe you when you said the thought of changing urine-soaked sheets in the middle of the night (or any time at all) would be a desire you held in your heart. That the mindless tasks that nobody hopes for, but almost every mother performs, seem like the greatest gift you could receive. To make the dinner that gets refused; to bundle your child up for fifteen minutes only to hear, “I have to pee!” To the grocery store runs with a toddler that were timed too close to a meal or a nap that leave the whole store trembling in your wake. You dream of these days that will give you the badge of motherhood. But instead, you wait.

You wait, and you ache; you worry over whether your child will know they are loved enough, or thought of enough, or important enough to you; simply because you cannot do these things. You sit on the floor to hold your crying baby, crying yourself because you are too weak to stand, and all that baby really wants is a mama who will hold him and walk. You give assured kisses as your child tucks you in for bed, promising you love them and will see them soon. You deny playtime and beg wearily for a quiet cuddle instead; but that rambunctious 1 year old doesn't know what it means to sit still (or why you can’t chase him).

You delegate. You try to know her favorite food or his schedule, but sometimes you fail; because life is ever changing, and you aren't always there to see it. You teach others how you want your child raised: from time-outs, to picky eating, to how much screen time is allowed in a day; you stress the importance of not telling a child they are bad, but that their behavior is bad. You research to make sure that there isn't a “better way” of doing things, and pass along all the wisdom you have gleaned.

You push yourself harder than you should—past what your body or your sanity can handle—just to have a “normal” experience with your child once in awhile. You adapt. You learn what you can do with your child, and you give it your all. You read to him; you read, and you read, and you read. You break your own rules about screen time just so you can keep him still so as to be together a little while longer. You share snuggles when you can; make shadow puppets; tell stories about your childhood or how you met Daddy. You teach him about God, and The Greatest Love Story Ever Told. You pray together. You have picnics in bed. You tickle and you laugh and you love. 

You do your best to help them understand something that should never have hit this close to home; and explain the wonders and dangers of the medical world around them. You let them play doctor on you, and feel a strange mix of pride and sadness when the squeamishness you felt as a child isn’t present in them—but  just the opposite—as this world of medicine is the norm for him now, too. You thank God this happened to you, and not them.  

You discipline. You get very creative at disciplining a child that you can’t chase after. You teach; you inform; you correct; you forgive. You teach what it means to show compassion, and how to do so regardless of your circumstances.

You ache for all you cannot do: volunteer in the classroom, enjoy the summer outdoors, or even give your child a bath. You watch as someone else does it for you, and feel gratitude, jealousy, sadness; and, sometimes joy. You experience the bittersweet feeling of knowing your child loves their caregiver, happy that a positive bond is formed; and, sad that it isn’t with you.  

Dear mother that thinks no one sees:  I do. I see how the world so often defines motherhood as caring for your child’s physical wellbeing, and I challenge it with you. I know the struggle with self-worth, and the direct correlation you make between how much you can do, and how valued you are. I know you worry that their childhood will slip away without you ever being a "real" part of it. I know how much you love your child, and how that love is no less than the mothers who are physically able to do laundry or unload the dishwasher. More importantly: your child sees you. They feel your love and know it is there. In the midst of your doubts and your worries, they know. Even when you aren’t the one to share in that childhood favourite, or hold their hand on the way to school, they know. You are irreplaceable.  For as long as you are loving them, you are their mother. And there is no doubt in my mind, by that definition, you are a not only a mother—but a good mother, too.

Love,

Kate

This post was directly inspired by this beautiful one, here, at  Faith and Composition. For all you mamas who aren't sick and need a boost, head over and recharge!

“Her children rise up and call her blessed. Her husband also praises her:

"Many women do noble things, but you excel them all."

Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain; but a woman who fears The LORD, she shall be praised.”

Proverbs 31:28-30