To the Mums Who Feel Invisible, We See You

They see you too. They may not say anything, but they do.

They see the safe-haven you gave them at the start of their lives. The cosy womb, followed by the soft bed and even softer chest.

The sacrifices, the lost social life, the stretch marks. They don’t acknowledge those things. No one really does.

Or the sleepless weeks, the unexplained sadness, the sore breasts, the soggy bedsheets. Daily battles often fought alone, internally. They don’t bring these moments up. They probably don’t remember them.

Nor do they remember the countless laps around the kitchen, shushing and shushing, singing the same lyrics over and over again. No one seems to remember those moments, except you.

For you, these moments define you. From the laps around the kitchen to the laps around the living room, holding their little hands as they try to take their first solo steps.

They don’t say a word about the milk spills you’ve cleaned, the playdoh you’ve made, the baby book you’ve collated in your very minimal free time.

They fail to mention the monsters you’ve chased away, the pen lids you’ve tracked down under the couch and returned to their pen owners, the vomit you’ve wiped from their mouth as you cradled them in your arms and watched the sunrise.

Daily things go unnoticed, unmentioned.

Crusts off sandwiches get cut off. The green cup is replaced with the blue cup before a tantrum ensues. A favourite shirt is hand-washed over and over again every night so it’s ready to wear the next day when they wake up.

Beds get made. Laundry gets folded. Uniforms get ironed. School fees get paid for. The pantry gets stocked. Socks get sorted.

Towels, left on the ground, are put back on the rack. Toothpaste stains on the mirror are magically gone.

The clutter gets cleared. The birthday parties get organised. The Christmas presents get wrapped. The toilet paper roll remains full and ready for little bums.

Nothing gets said.

When they’re young, they may not be capable of saying thank you, or I love you, or I appreciate you. They don’t understand that you would move mountains for them. All they know is that you do.

As they grow, they learn and they start to see you. They say please and thank you and I love you, mummy. They draw love hearts for you and throw their arms around your neck.

They may not physically thank you for everything that you do, but they don’t have to.

You learn to read between the lines.

It’s when you are watching TV with them and you catch them out of the corner of your eye staring at you. Studying your face. Soaking in the person who means the most to them.

Or the way they come out of your closet, wearing your clothes, your shoes, your hat, your expensive makeup smeared all over their lips. So proud to look just like you.

It’s the way they come to you when they are upset. They scream, they kick, they yell. They only let these big emotions out in the comfort of mum because they know mum will help them through it.

It’s the way they turn to find you in a crowd when getting an award at assembly. They may not come up and hug you (especially if they are too cool), but they don’t need to. You watch them scan the room, that look of pure relief and joy when they spot you looking back at them.

It’s the way they touch your arm at night. Or twirl your hair. Or reach for your hand. Just to know you’re there.

One day, one day they will say it.

At their graduation. On their wedding day, perhaps. The day they bring their first baby home. Or the night they call you at 2am to come over and help them settle her.

They will say it.

Thank you for everything. For loving me. For feeding me. For caring for me. For keeping me safe. For teaching me. For moving mountains for me.

One day they will thank you for being their mum. They will find the words to tell you how much it all meant and how much they appreciate it all.

And you, with tears in your eyes, pride in your throat and happiness in your heart, will be the one who is speechless.