Disappearing Acts of Motherhood

Before her feet hit the floor, she heard it.
The knock on the bedroom door.
Someone needed her.
Someone was sick or had to go to the bathroom.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and opened the door.
She saw her child; no dancing eyes, and hot to the touch.
I don’t feel so good, the understatement of the year.
As she led her back to her room, it happened, all over the floor.

Thank goodness for hardwood floors.
So much easier to clean up than carpets.
Stomach viruses are the worst.
She immediately rearranged her day in her mind.

Her sick child would spend the day on the sofa.
The familiar bucket beside her.
The favorite cup with a straw to try to get some sips of water into her.
The blanket with the teddy bears for comfort and warmth.

I wonder how quickly everyone else will get this, she mused.
She rearranged her week in her mind.
She began to make lunches for the others who would undoubtedly go to school.
No sign of sickness in anyone else.

She put a load of laundry in the washing machine, only to hear, MOM, again.
She emptied the bucket and wet a washcloth with cool water for her child’s head.
She sat at the end of the sofa with her child’s legs across her lap.
She gently rubbed them and played the years over in her mind.

Her little one finally asleep, she went to check on her laundry.
She never put the detergent in the compartment or closed the door of the front loader.
I’m losing it, she said to herself as she pushed the button.
The washer began to tumble the dirty clothes in a swirl of colors.

Corduroy. I will read her A Pocket for Corduroy when she wakes up.
She ran to the bookshelf to get her little girl’s favorite book.
She loved the page with the clothes tumbling in the washing machine.
She loved the swirl of colors as they went round and round.

While she was upstairs, she noticed the bed was not made.
She looked into the other rooms to see beds made as well as a child can make them.
The house was quiet so she would get to that closet she wanted to go through.
About an hour later, the bag for Goodwill was full and her sleeping child was stirring.

Mom, I’m, hungry, a good sign, though she had learned from the others to be cautious.
How about some pretzels? as she filled the favorite cup with apple juice and a pink straw.
As her little patient munched on pretzels, she read books to her, one after another.
Her little girl’s eyes were getting brighter, must have been a twenty-four hour thing.

How it got to be lunchtime, she will never know.
Maybe a little chicken noodle soup would help.
She prepared it and served it in a special bowl.
Her little girl came into the kitchen to eat.

She would start dinner, and went through some recipes to try something new.
She remembered the wash that had been sitting in the washer all morning.
She hung some things and put the rest in the dryer.
She decided to clean the bathroom where her little girl got sick this morning.

She disinfected the many common surfaces, praying that the virus would not spread.
She looked down at her clothes and realized that she never got dressed today.
She was still without makeup, still in her comfy pants, and still had not fixed her hair.
One of those days.

One of those days when so much got done but nothing done was seen.
One of those days when she was at the beck and call of someone else.
And that was perfectly fine.
Didn’t Jesus wash feet?

The disappearing acts of motherhood, someone once said.
The myriad of things that a mother does that no one ever sees.
The thread that keeps it all together.
The heart of the home.

What did you do all day? Her husband asked when he got home.
She wanted to lash out at him but thought better of it.
He had already left for work before the morning took a downturn.
Do you really want to know? She asked searching his eyes for the answer.

I really do, he said, gently touching her arm.
The teakettle was boiling and she poured two cups.
He couldn’t fix it; this was life with small children.
He couldn’t change anything; this was motherhood.

But the touch on her arm, his willingness to listen.
A balm of Gilead for her frazzled soul.
You look beautiful, he said and meant it.
She thought of the swirling washing machine in the book she read.

Even in the midst of the tossing and turning, the clothes made beautiful colors.
The chaos had a certain beauty to it.
She understood that now.
I didn’t get too much done today, realizing that the new recipes were still on her desk.

She’s better. You were there when she needed you. I’d say mission accomplished.
Mission accomplished.
Was that what it was all about?
Being there, unseen, yet so vital to the well being of the family.

Thank you, Lord for the disappearing acts of motherhood.
Only You notice them, as only You should.
Thank you that You see what no one else sees.
Thank you for holding me when I am so weary.

It was okay.
It was really okay.
She fell into bed in the same clothes she woke up in.
And it was more than okay.

Having loved His own who were in the world, He now showed them the full extent of His love…He got up from the meal, took off His outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around His waist. After that, He poured water into a basin and began to wash His disciples feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around Him. (John 13:1,4,5)

2 responses to “Disappearing Acts of Motherhood”

1. Sounds like you were reminiscent. You understood but let me vent without interruption. You encouraged. Thank you.

   Reply

   • Marcie,
     Hearing your heart was my privilege.
     You are doing the most important job you can do…and you are doing it well.
     Gina

     Reply