The Resume of Motherhood

I can think of few activities more depressing than putting together a resume after not working for seven years.  I know, because I just did it.

I couldn't remember half of the orchestras I've played in, how long I worked at various places, even had to doublecheck graduation YEARS for college and grad school.  I have not contributed to our family's income since 2005.  I know, because I still do our taxes.  Let me be clear - I am not ungrateful.  My husband works long and hard hours to support our family.  Even so, time has truly marched on, and has crushed huge chunks of my life into dusty memories.

Ryan asked what I was doing at the computer.  When I explained to him what a resume was, he looked at me with a disturbing mix of concern and pity.  "What DID you tell them you do, Mom?"  Even he knew that my skill at packing three nutritious, individualized bag lunches a day doesn't really impress the powers that be.  Nor would my uncanny ability to find lost library books, or to get splinters out, or to read stories with a different voice for each character without getting them mixed up.  Hmm.  What DO I do, after all?

Let's take today, for example.  Today was the last day of spring break.  It was gorgeous.  I packed a backpack full of snacks, loaded dog, bikes and kids into the car and headed out to Tallman (a local state park).   I strapped on helmets and reassured nervous riders, legs still wobbly from the long winter.  I showed them a new hiking path that led to a bluff overlooking our expansive, majestic Hudson River.  I got to hear them gasp with awe, and watched carefully as they found a place to sit, close to the edge - but not too close!  I pointed out the red-tailed hawk soaring overhead, seeking a smaller bird's nest.  I lifted logs so they could peer underneath, listened to them squealing at centipedes and grubs.  I watched intently as they crossed over rushing streams, celebrating each crossing with cheers and exuberant high-fives.  I marveled over a dead snake and discussed its identity and beauty, even in death.  I carefully removed a beetle from Matthew's shirt and placed it on a leaf, and watched my son's face as he offered it a farewell goodbye, wishing it "a happy life".  I smiled.  So did the beetle, I swear.

I offered encouragement and ice cream to tired bike riders on the way back to the car, and felt my heart swell as their tiny legs pushed onward, renewed.  I was aware that this moment would never be again, and I was grateful.

I write this post for every mother - every mother who suffers the daily unthankfulness of motherhood.  Who pushes loaded grocery carts in the rain, who drives forgotten jackets/lunches/backpacks to school and never hears a 'thank you', who sits through baseball games while juggling bored younger siblings, who forfeits two hours of her life standing around at a birthday party while her child plays away, who gives her last dollar to buy the sweater/toy/book/CD/concert tickets that her child really wants, who stays up until the wee hours with worry and fear about her child's wellbeing and health, who bites her tongue when her 14 year old lashes out at her, who remembers to send in the field trip permission slips/lunch money/party rsvps/parent teacher conferences forms/camp applications/school photo payments, who allows her daughter to ride with a friend to the diner for the very first time, who advocates for her special-needs son to get the very best support possible, who knows where the bat/ball/glove/favorite shirt/Lego/Polly Pocket/piano books/lacrosse stick/eyeliner is, who takes her children to job interviews because she can't afford to hire yet another babysitter just to try to make money,

To you beautiful mothers I say this -- you are not writing a resume.  You are engraving an indelible message on your children's hearts.  It says, "YOU MATTER."  It will not go unnoticed.  You are the most important authors there are.

Keep on writing, my friends.