Parenting Insights: A Reflective Journey
Updated: Jan. 5, 2016
Originally Published: Sep. 28, 2012
The Journey of Becoming Unseen
When my father, at an age just shy of my current thirty years, attempted to surprise my mother with a special birthday celebration, it was a heartfelt gesture. She was reaching the milestone of thirty, a significant moment that often symbolizes a transition away from youthful identity. Although my mother was never one to prioritize such celebrations, my father, who was only slightly younger than she, felt compelled to make the occasion memorable.
He invested considerable effort into organizing the party, inviting a multitude of friends who were eager to join in honoring my mother—who would never orchestrate such an event for herself. Lacking expertise in event planning, my father entrusted the food arrangements to others but took it upon himself to order a dozen cheesecakes from a local bakery, knowing how much my mother adored them. The plan was for friends to contribute dishes for a potluck while the children entertained my siblings and me, ensuring my mother would have a joyful thirtieth birthday.
However, fate intervened in early spring 1987 when a severe flu epidemic swept through Pittsburgh. On the day of the celebration, as my father collected the cheesecakes, the phone rang incessantly with cancellations. Almost all guests had succumbed to illness, leaving only three able to attend. My father had no choice but to call off the party, leading to a quiet celebration with my mother, where they stored most of the cheesecakes in the freezer and enjoyed them over the following weeks.
At just three years old, I was blissfully unaware of these events. My memories of my mother’s thirtieth birthday are filled with images of smiles, My Little Ponies, and a spotless home.
Now that I approach my own thirtieth birthday, I find myself reflecting on my parents’ experiences. I understand my father’s desire to create a special moment, and I comprehend why my mother, at my age and with three children herself, would purchase gifts for her birthday. I can empathize with my father’s feelings of helplessness in wanting to dedicate a day solely to her, and I recognize the depth of that gesture for my mother.
Being a stay-at-home parent often means that life revolves around the children. The only times when it becomes about oneself are during instances of grief or illness. The alternative—actively demanding recognition, like prompting children to craft birthday cards—tends to drain the joy from celebrations. The best way to ensure a good time is to prioritize their happiness. Hence, my memories of my mother’s birthday are dominated by a new stuffed pony joyfully bouncing on the dining room table.
As I near thirty, I envision my father as he was then—slightly heavier, dressed in faded jeans and witty t-shirts. I can vividly recall his broad smile, deep dimples, and bright eyes. I can picture him now, just as I can envision him from my childhood. Yet, this image of him feels distant and different from the father figure I know today. I can piece him together like a puzzle, not merely through photographs but through the visceral imprints he left on my life.
In contrast, I struggle to visualize my mother at thirty. I can recall her hands skillfully rolling cookie dough, the ring on her finger, and her slender wrists. I can picture the back of her jeans as she walks ahead of me, handing me money for the ice cream truck. I remember her bare legs lying on the porch, crossed at the ankles, while ants march across them. I can see her silhouette at the bottom of the stairs, urging me to abandon my attempts at somersaults. I remember the barrette in her hair as she sat at the table. Yet, her face remains elusive. To me, my mother exists as an invisible force—an embodiment of love, discipline, and unwavering presence.
As a child, I studied my father, a figure I cherished and who frequently left for a mysterious world called “work.” My mother, however, was always there. If I called out, she would appear. If I misbehaved, she would guide me. In moments of fear or sadness, I could run to her, enveloped by the comfort of her presence, her voice resonating with the soothing hum of motherhood.
My mother’s voice lingers in my memory, a melody that fills the universe, resonating through my very being. I can hear her rhythm, yet I cannot grasp the words. At thirty, she was invisible to me, and now, I find myself in her shoes.
Like my father, birthdays hold significance for me, though I cannot pinpoint why. It may seem trivial, yet it resonates deeply. I empathize with my father, a man in his late twenties, yearning to create meaning out of special days. I believe I understand my mother, yet she remains a mystery. Our lives may parallel in many ways, but I cannot fully appreciate her experience at thirty as I do with my father’s.
This realization connects me to all mothers—those who have been shadows, ever-present in their children’s lives. I feel a profound sorrow for every stay-at-home parent often overlooked by their children, who rush past without acknowledgment, secure in the belief that their parent will always be there. This knowledge brings me closer to them while simultaneously overwhelming me with grief.
I embody this gentle vibration, a mysterious force, destined to fade from my children’s memories, replaced by the ever-evolving face they see before them. When I envision my mother, I see her as she is today—not the youthful beauty she once was. That young woman remains a stranger to me.
The grief of losing parts of my mother forever weighs heavily on my heart. Perhaps this feeling is unique to me; perhaps I was the only child too wrapped up in my own world to truly see her. Yet, I observe it in my own children, who once gazed at me wide-eyed but now dash past me, oblivious to my presence.
Maybe it’s not the approach of thirty that troubles me, but rather the fear of losing myself in motherhood. I worry that I am already fading, supplanted by a ghost whose voice will comfort my children long after I’m gone. As I mourn the loss of my former self, I am filled with an overwhelming mix of guilt and joy that brings me to tears.
I have always aspired to be this enduring presence—immortal, nurturing, and profoundly loved by my children. I longed to dissolve into the vastness of that love, to transform into an all-powerful spirit caring for every child with raw, bold devotion.
I have always wanted to be a mother.
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Summary
The author reflects on the complexities of motherhood, contrasting their experiences with those of their parents at the age of thirty. The narrative delves into themes of invisibility in parenting, the significance of birthdays, and the emotional turmoil of feeling both a profound connection to and a loss of one’s identity as a mother. Ultimately, the piece captures the bittersweet essence of motherhood and the lasting impact a parent has on their children.
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