Somewhere, in a house with walls and a roof very similar to the place you and I call home, there is a mother who wonders if she' seen. She wakes to a squalling baby, crying to nurse, or an older child (or two or four) demanding breakfast. She's barely wiped the sleep from her eyes and has yet to pour a cup of coffee before diapers need to be changed and the dog must be let out.
Her job, nay her calling, begins before her feet even hit the floor. There is no commute to the office, no clocking in for motherhood. There is breakfast to tend, lunch boxes to pack, backpacks to gather. Urine-soaked sheets need stripping; there are dishes in the sink, and a pile of laundry litters the closet floor.
This isn't a glamorous role, and no one is applauding her this morning.
This is a mom who wipes fevers from brows, tears from cheeks and blood from skinned-up knees. She sweeps crumbs from crevices and brushes hair from eyes. She chauffeurs, she cooks, she cleans. She scrubs stains from pant legs and mends broken hearts. She’s an encourager, a truth speaker, a life giver. She corrects, she counsels, she directs.
She does the hard work, the mundane tasks, and most of the time, she does it all without an eye to see. And sometimes she wonders if anyone notices.
I know that mom, maybe you do too. She's me, and I have a feeling she might be you.
This calling of motherhood is a service unlike anything else, where the privilege of giving life is tempered by a daily dying to self. It's the very nature of motherhood. Sometimes I do it well, and sometimes I do it poorly. Sometimes I meet my children's needs with grace and humility, and then other times I look in the mirror and see ugly, selfish pride staring right back. Sometimes this laying down of self is affirmed by slobbery kisses, vice-like hugs and countless "I-love-you-to-the-moon-and-back" sentiments, and other times I feel as though it's all in vain.