Thank you for that

The fact that motherhood can often be a thankless task is a given that gets pointed out so often that I am almost tired of hearing it. All the memes circulating on social media of tired moms going on therapeutic shopping sprees to Target, drinking wine and whining about not getting any credit for their sacrifices don’t always make me nod in agreement. Sometimes it makes me downright uncomfortable. Why are we so petty about not being thanked enough? Why do we feel such a hunger for being seen and appreciated if we knew, going into this “investment”, that we’re playing a long game of putting in a lot before seeing any dividends? 

Do we seriously expect our miniature little humans to be deeply and vocally appreciative of how we cook and clean and plan and panic for them? Do we really want their approval for the way we doom scroll late at night, worrying about the RSV circulating in their classrooms, the painful likelihood of Santa getting the list wrong this year, the unfairness of their so-called best friend not inviting them to a playdate? Or … are we secretly angry at ourselves for allowing feelings of dissatisfaction and self-doubt to overshadow the glaring, uncomfortable truth of what parenting is at its core: Putting in infinite hours of care and effort into an endeavour that is essentially not just about “changing” (implying nurturing, growing) the objects of our affection, but more about the deep and lasting changes it brings about in ourselves. 

Of course I get it! We all want a pat on the back sometimes. We all want to get some recognition for going above and beyond to make something happen on someone else’s behalf (even if that someone else is six years old and oblivious to the perceived hardship of getting into a particular gymnastics class the second the signup goes live, or going to bed in the wee hours of the morning after trying to wrap up a work project andconjure up an adequate surprize from the tooth fairy). I have tried to coax antibiotics into the most obstinate Kindergartner in the universe. I know how thankless or even abusive that feels (I dare anyone to come try for themselves to make her take penicillin. Enter at your own peril). 

There are the unifying complaints of parenthood. We are all tired. We are all feeling slightly invisible. We all feel demotivated and disspirited when the three-year-old calls us mean, when the teacher graciously points out “things to work on at home” during the fall conference; when the meal you’ve labored over while juggling a suite of other Sisyphean household tasks is met by a chorus of yucks or – even worse – impartial, unenthusiastic consumption. I am that mother too. I understand the compulsion, then, to humble brag about how I scrubbed mud off four pairs of boots after visiting the pumpkin patch in torrential rain, or how I managed to snag back-to-back swimlessons for both kids in the middle of winter. But I know I shouldn’t. Because … aren’t our efforts supposed to be invisible? Shouldn’t a good parent, like a good editor, understand that the contract involves not seeing your name on the cover and accepting that someone else will be made to shine thanks to your unseen input?

Also – the “thank you’s” do come. We tend to forget that, despite the angst and exasperation, the expenses and the juggling, there are frequent moments of sheer perfecftion and bliss that should be ample reward for the sacrifices we make. The clumsy arts-and-crafts for Mother’s Day; the cup of tea halfway spilled over the kitchen counter; the vibrant fingerpaint creations and and the oddly timed declarations of love (clinging like an orangutan to you at school drop-off) prove without a doubt that our children do have us firmly on a pedestal. That they see us as the epitome of everything they hold dear. And that maybe, in being so disgruntled by the lack of acknowledgement from the wider world, we are only exposing our own vulnerabilities, rather than pointing a finger at a genuine void. 

We feel the sting of not getting invited – because it brings back memories of feeling socially awkward ourselves. 

We feel the frustration of not being recognized for our cooking and cleaning – because maybe we would rather be doing paid, professional work. 

We feel a level of personal failure and inadequacy in the teacher’s pointing out that “focusing more on numbers at home” could be helpful – because it reminds us of the nightmare of tenth-grade physics. 

We feel some self-loathing and a sense of being exposed resonating in a passionate “I hate you!” or “You’re mean!” – because sometimes we hate ourselves and we are mean. 

We are not only bringing up our babies. We are also bringing up ourselves. In learning patience, in learning humility, in being humbled by how our children see us, we are becoming different versions of ourselves. And despite the hackneyed excuses of being sleep-deprived, never being able to hear yourself think and falling constant victim to mom brain … I am more aware than ever of the unanticipated, serendipitious rewards of this season. 

When I overhear my oldest telling her sister something in her “big girl voice” and the echoes of my own words and mannerisms are undeniable. 

When we’re practicing piano, and I watch with glee as she gets to “the good bit!” in her song and she starts banging out the chorus with relish: loving every moment of being able to command her fingers and her eyes and her ears to cooperate towards joy in a manner that I mirrored since before she could walk or talk. 

When I walk into the school library with overdue books that the baby has forgotten home and the teacher tells me: “Oh, that one loves her books!” 

When, in the course of an ordinary day, I watch my thriving, exuberant children and realize that in putting in the invisible hours, I am succeeding – even though the laundry pile is out of control and the floors need mopping and the curtains haven’t been washed since the older one was a baby. 

I catch them running into my arms at school pickup and feel their hands in mine as we walk home. And I sense my spirit communing with the universe, whispering: “Thank you for that!”