As most of you know, I am unable to bear children. For many years Mother's Day was a source of pain and heart-ache; a reminder to that I am "less-than" a complete woman.
Then just over 15 years ago I was able to adopt a beautiful baby girl. Problem solved, right? Not so fast- I still have never managed to carry a child to term and, to be honest, there was a bit of emotional baggage because of some of the circumstances around the adoption. Mother's Day for the next few years came with some guilt to go on top of the feelings of inadequacy. Was I taking unfair advantage of my 16 year old step-daughter by adopting her child, am I really emotionally suited to motherhood, and am I really doing things in the best interest of the child or merely to meet some need of mine? Shortly after the adoption, came a divorce and all that goes along with that.
Then, as a single mother, I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints . . . For those unfamiliar with our faith, there is a huge emphasis on family and the sanctity of marriage. Families tend to be fairly large and motherhood is revered. There are usually expectant mothers, baby showers and nursing mothers in abundance. Pregnancy and nursing are things I would never experience and it was sometimes uncomfortable or at times even painful for me to have the reminders of my "failings" around me all the time.
Then, almost 9 years ago I married a widower with 3 children at home (aged 9-12 at the time). Suddenly I lived with 4 children all calling me "Mom". Their biological mother, Shirlee, had recently died after a long battle with cancer. At first, Shirlee was never far from my thoughts. I had moved into her house, was married to her husband and was raising her kids. I was constantly second guessing myself- "Is this what she would want for them? Would she lose her temper this way? Am I being too easy or hard on her children? Is she watching over my shoulder and cringing at what she sees?"
A few years ago, Ron legally adopted the youngest and we moved from "their" house in Kamloops into "our" house in Courtenay. It feels to me as if we have truly become a single family; Ron and the children have finally become "mine" in my head. I still occasionally wonder if I have done the right things in raising the kids- and I know for sure that I have made many missteps.
The syrupy-sweet Mother's Day stories and the idealized version of mothers still make me VERY uncomfortable, but now I think it is because I see them as phoney and unrealistic. A more realistic, but still uplifting story of motherhood was shared over the pulpit today. I can identify with much of what this woman says-
"The Invisible Mom
It started to happen gradually. One day I was walking my son Jake to school. I was holding his hand and we were about to cross the street when the crossing guard said to him, 'Who is that with you, young fella?' 'Nobody,' he shrugged. Nobody? The crossing guard and I laughed. My son is only 5, but as we crossed the street I thought, 'Oh my goodness, nobody?'I would walk into a room and no one would notice. I would say something to my family - like 'Turn the TV down, please' - and nothing would happen. Nobody would get up, or even make a move for the remote. I would stand there for a minute, and then I would say again, a little louder, 'Would someone turn the TV down?' Nothing.
Just the other night my husband and I were out at a party. We'd been there for about three hours and I was ready to leave. I noticed he was talking to a friend from work. So I walked over, and when there was a break in the conversation, I whispered, 'I'm ready to go when you are.' He just kept right on talking.
That's when I started to put all the pieces together. I don't think he can see me. I don't think anyone can see me.
I'm invisible.
It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will 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'mon 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.
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 car to order, 'Right around 5:30, please.' I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated summa cum laude - 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 Janice had just gotten back 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 as I looked down at my out-of-style dress; it was the only thing I could find that was clean. My unwashed hair was pulled up in a banana clip and I was afraid I could actually smell peanut butter in it. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice 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: 'To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.'
In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names.These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.
A legendary story 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, Charlotte. 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, 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.'
At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride. 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 three hours and presses all the linens for the table.'
That would mean I'd built a shrine or 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, to add, '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 women." The web page this came from is here
I have come to realize that my grandmothers had nearly as much influence on me as my mother did; that giving birth to a child does not matter as much as I once thought it did in shaping, loving and guiding that child. I am finally secure in my role as a mother and no longer feel so much pain and resentment on "Mother's Day". The children we are raising give me stress, drive me crazy and are amazing individuals. I feel honored that they still choose to call me "Mom" even after knowing me for awhile. I still can never really participate in the frequent pregnancy/nursing stories that always seem to come about in any gathering of women, but I DO have "Mom" stories now. . . and I am OK with that.
So Happy Mother's Day to all of the women who love and care for a child in whatever capacity you can.
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