Martyr Mothering: Do They Even Notice

Like most things in my life, I may have acted hastily when I accepted the time honored role of martyr mother. In retrospect, I'm not sure what other route I could have chosen as it seems the two, being a mom and being a martyr do more than go hand in hand ... they are fused together as a sort of conjoined beast. Where one ends and the other begins, I don't know, and in my case, they share vital organs. My problem with the arrangement comes not in the sacrifice ... oh no, sacrifice is the life blood of the martyr and the very gasoline that drives me to accomplish the vast amounts of mothering that must be accomplished every day. My trouble is with the invisibility of it all. To labor without recognition is ... well ... it may be a bit like writing without being read. Not that writing can be compared to martyr mothering ... it doesn't offer the same smug satisfaction.

It all started with the turn in our lives that came when we decided we wanted children. Someone female was required to donate her trim little body to the cause, and that female would have to be me ... unless I gave in to John's constant suggestions that we bring in a second female ... a "little wife" as they are known in old China. Like hell. I'd do it myself, thank you very much. And I did! My body modification actually began the moment I met John, so long before I was actually knocked up. At somewhere in the vicinity of 100 pounds, he thought I looked pinched and "fierce". I preferred to describe it as "fit" or "athletic" but in any case, I eagerly abandoned Gym, the only man in my life at the time John and I met, to pursue a brave new world of Philly Cheese steak sandwiches and horrible monster sized breakfasts at Jackson Hole Diner. I gained ten pounds ... a start. Try as I may, I was unable to exceed 112 pounds on my new diet and exercise (none) regimen. John was forever pinching my cheeks saying there was no meat there. I felt like a porpoise. When I got pregnant with Claire, I was suddenly a porpoise with purpose! I have a photo of myself proudly posing in a maternity outfit, nine weeks pregnant. My stomach is flatter than it has ever been since and my little arms hang thinly from my sleeveless top. I was TRYING to be fat and failing.

Things changed quickly then. By the end of my pregnancy, I was 125 pounds ... scoffable now, yes, but an important first step toward obesity. I gained (and kept) another 15 pounds to generate Ava and now stand somewhere up the weight hill from there, too afraid to look down. I soldier on bravely.

The other starter sacrifice was to give up my career to raise my babies by hand, as Dickens would say. I wasn't about to let any other woman or daycare provider experience the intense satisfaction and joy that comes with all of those glorious firsts ... first spit up, first poo in a crazy color, first smile, first laugh, first this, first that. Oh ho no! I would be there mySELF, thank you very much. I maybe didn't realize at the time that there would be a three month span between first spit up and first poo in a crazy color. Did I need to be there, sacrificing my career every moment in between? Yes and I gladly left it all behind; coffee and muffin mornings, lunches out with girlfriends, normal bank-centered conversation, marching around a city large enough to house a store, looking important and cute in a size two suit. Other small things abandoned ... admiration from my colleagues regarding my blossoming expertise in Float dynamics (a finance thing) and financial independence. Gone, all gone.

Instead, I sacrifice. And I would be more than fine with that if the sacrifice came with recognition from my husband and an occasional expression of gratitude from my children. My latest sacrifice has been "holding down the fort" while John launches our business. Holding down the fort includes but is not limited to: not expecting John home for dinner any day of the week, not pressuring him to spend some time with us, not calling him while he is at work to seek adult companionship or to commiserate or consult with him regarding his faulty offspring, not minding when he works on holidays and weekends, entertaining his family at our house with enough witty conversation to prevent their noticing John is not here, and the one I canNOT handle ... not complaining. I canNOT not complain! I am operating a boarding house for his Chinese cousins who require a base situated between BOS and NYC on weekends (granted, this was only necessary last weekend and this approaching weekend), I am raising two children, I am pregnant and overflowing with exciting emotions like sadness, anger, excitement and apprehension. All alone!

For the first almost three months of this, I stoically looked to the future for my reward ... John is going to realize one day how selflessly I gave of myself during this time and he is going to apologize for not recognizing the epicness of my struggle and will buy me a whopping gift. But I am such a lousy martyr that I couldn't even hold my martyr enterprise together through the first quarter and broke down last night in an explosion of bad feelings toward John. Which would have been in keeping with martyrdom except it was a verbal explosion without any of that subtle art known as passive aggression. What tipped me over the edge, specifically, is I have a cold. There is no freakin (sorry, Dad) way I can do all of the above with a cold and without medication. I have been sneak dosing Nyquil ... I keep a bottle under my sink in the bathroom ... not recommended for pregnancy but WHAT EVER.

But yes, I am ok. Don't worry about me. I will be fine laboring on as I am, pregnant, tired, and effectively single, knowing my reward waits for me in heaven.

your correspondent