Invisible Mother: An Ode to the Nurturing Sort

It all 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'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 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 cum laude - but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going; she's going; she is 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. 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 4:00 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.

Thank you, Mindi Yeger, for this wonderful essay and for letting me post it. I think the art of Mary Cassatt is the perfect accompaniment. I know your cathedrals are breathtaking. :)


  1. This entry reminded me of my friend. Her daughters are pretty demanding but she always makes time for them and pushes her own wants or needs aside. She's a very considerate person.

    Your blog is so great with all of these little quotes and life lessons. It's like Jenn's moment of zen here people ;)

  2. Thank you so much, Robin. This essay was sent to me by a Facebook Friend, Mindi Yeger. I put in the Mary Cassatt portraits. She's my favorite Impressionist painter(and an American, to boot).

    I esp. like the line where the college kid tells his friend, "You'll love it here."


  3. I just burst into tears. I hardly ever do that, at anything, especially not the written word. Sure, I'll cry at the end of a movie but there's two hours of build-up. Spontaneous tears are just not me.

    That line that she wrote inside the book, that's the line that did it. I am going through a rough spot with one of my kids right now and there are frequently days when I feel as though I'm the worst parent in the world, and other days when I feel as though I'm Mother of the Year but nobody notices. The see-saw is killing me.

    Thank you SO much for posting this. I'm going to print it out and put it on the wall above my desk, right next to the Goethe quote my dad gave me for my 18th birthday -

    Whatever you can do or dream you can begin it. Boldness has genius, magic and power in it. Begin it now.

  4. Trish, thank you. I think there's a 'silent suffering' than many of us Moms endure. I won't go so far as to say it's a martyrdom-thing...it's just a tough, tough job! It's the most joyful thing I've ever done, absolutely. But boy, it's hard, right?

    I love your Goethe quote. "Nothing is worth more than this day" is hanging in my powder room. :)

    Another fav., and the best advice me Dad has given me: "Follow your bliss." It sounds like that's what you're doing with your writing and photography? I think the challenge is first finding out what our "bliss" is! :D

    Keep the Faith, girl. Moms rock!


  5. Ok, I just re-read your comment, Trish. And the quote your Dad gave you on your 18th birthday has ME in tears. The sentiment. What a wonderul father! :)