Missing My Great Work: Identifying the Influence I Already Have

As a mother in a society that no longer values mothering as an exclusive, unpaid profession, I feel the constant pull to do and be more.  I was raised by a college educated mother myself, one who never worked in her field but never regretted her choice both to pursue higher education and to become a stay at home wife and mother.  It was something I never thought less of, but rather something I aspired to. Yet, I constantly feel as though I am not enough.

I take care of my children, educate them, and manage our home and our finances but I feel the need to defend my usefulness. As though the fact that I don’t draw a paycheck makes my work less essential.

Some of this pull is internal. I have dreams, and desires inside that pulse just beneath the surface. Sometimes in the gentle rhythm of a percolating mind, filled with ideas and untapped potential. But it can also be the frantic bulging of entombed possibilities. The fear of being left behind is real.

This is what my culture tells me daily. If I sacrifice myself for motherhood, I’m doing myself a disservice and worse, my daughter a disservice by setting her a poor example. I’m dishonoring the women who fought to be more, and to accept motherhood as a calling is lazy and entitled.

I’m a person of words and ideas, I’m supposed to be a maker, an influencer, a world changer. None of this in inherently bad, though nothing watered by fear of insignificance is likely to produce satisfying growth. But in the effort to prove my worth I may be missing out on my real and best opportunity to influence.

I am a mother! This means I get the best and first rights to influence my children. My daughter is nine and currently thinks I’m actually pretty cool. This is a big change from years three through six with a brief respite during year seven followed by year eight where she hated everyone including me and herself.   She actually told me the other day that she doesn’t understand why teenage girls don’t like their moms.

“Mommy, I think you’re great. I don’t think anyone understands me like you do.”

I only hope those words can sustain me through the teen years.  But that’s part of my point. We’ve cultivated this relationship. Perhaps not always as well or as consistently as I would have liked, but the joy we are experiencing between us right now didn’t just spawn overnight. It was part of years of painful investment at times when I often wondered if I had made a mistake becoming a parent. (Before you think I have it altogether now, I’ll have to tell you another time about my relationship with my not quite neuro-typical and not quite seven year old son).

Producing impressive writing often feels easier than raising good kids. Mostly because I can make the words do whatever I want. I can edit, revise and rewrite until it comes out the way I imagined. Parenting is far more complicated.  I am tasked with trying to guide a person who isn’t even fully developed. I can influence her indirectly and gently guide her growth, but I don’t have the full picture of who she is going to be. I can only advise not revise, and in the end the choices are hers.

I have been granted the immense privilege of nurturing a human soul and an immortal spirit. The work I do today has an impact far beyond my life time or even this mortal coil. This is not arrogance, but rather a heavy responsibility, the weight of which pulls me to my knees daily.

When I get up tomorrow, hardly anyone will know this was published. It may pass unnoticed in most people’s social media feeds and within less than twenty four hours will likely pass into obscurity. But my children will notice if I smile at them at breakfast, and my son will remember if I let him sit on my lap during school.  I will do a day’s full of seemingly insignificant work between giving spelling tests, discussing multiplication and planning dinner. But it all matters. I have to remind myself of this most of all.