invisible

There are so many new experiences that come with being a mom, many of which I expected (or, at least, was told to expect)—and some of which I didn’t. I expected my priorities to shift, even though I didn’t know exactly what that would feel like. I expected to have less time for myself. I expected I would be stretched physically, mentally, and spiritually.

The most unexpected experience, however, has been this sense of a complete change in—what should I call it, social class? position? status?—that is palpable everywhere I go.

It’s a running joke with too much truth in it: When you’re a kid, everyone asks you what you’re going to be when you grow up. When you grow up, everyone asks you why you’re still single. Once you’re in a relationship, everyone asks you when you’re going to get married. After you get married, everyone asks you when you’re going to have a kid.

In my experience, once you have a kid, the community response splits: They begin to ask the husband when he’s having another one, and they begin to ask the wife…nothing at all.

People smile at me when I carry Clara into church on Sunday mornings. Sometimes they say hello to her, or they remark on her pretty eyes. They’ll chuckle as they watch her race between the pews after the service, with me close on her heels; they’ll stop to talk to her if she slows down long enough. Somewhere on the other side of the sanctuary, my husband is in a group conversation about work or construction or pigs. Maybe they’re even asking him when he’s going to have another kid.

Meanwhile, I wonder if I accidentally wore my invisibility cloak.

Church is far from the only place I’ve felt this way. In fact, I’ve walked into my workplace with Clara and had the exact opposite experience: My coworkers chatted me up like they usually do, but they acted like Clara wasn’t even there. When I work my weekly shift, almost no one ever asks me how my daughter is, or refers to her at all. It’s as if she doesn’t exist—and I wonder, did I wear my invisibility cloak again? Because if she doesn’t exist, I’m not sure that I do; she is such an enormous part of who I am.

It makes sense to me now why women who become mothers often turn wholeheartedly to “mommy culture” for their community and validation in some way. They become mommy bloggers, “momtogs,” and members of unofficial Instagram clubs like #girlmom or #boymom. This is where they can feel like equals, like human beings with voices still worth hearing, like they can bring themselves wholly to the table. It’s also true that things often have to be mom-specific in order to be mom-friendly: We go to young moms’ Bible studies because they’re usually the only ones that offer childcare, or that don’t take place during the bedtime routine.

And there is a lot of good that comes from moms of young kids enjoying, empathizing with, and learning from relationships with other moms in a similar boat.

But the dark side is that it can be incredibly isolating, and it can rob the community as a whole of a wealth of wisdom and opportunity.

When I’m at church, wrestling my squirmy 19-month-old and my giant Bible in my lap and hoping she doesn’t yell “Puppy!” when her stuffed dog falls on the floor, I often have no idea why I’m there—a sentiment which only intensifies when I don’t get to say more than hello to a single soul after the service is over. When I’m at work, trying to hold a conversation with my childless manager about Formula One racing or build rapport with my college-aged coworkers, I often feel like a fish out of water—flopping all over the place trying to get some oxygen, but all I can find is air. And when I’m at home, cycling through the daily routine of mealtime and playtime and naptime and bedtime, I often just feel alone—like I’m the only mom who has been both completely changed by motherhood and is also still the same person who wants to have winding Bible-nerdy conversations, who has interests outside of her child, who needs friends.

I can’t help but think that our churches and workplaces and neighborhoods and nation would be a lot richer if we welcomed mothers in a way that goes beyond a potted plant on Mother’s Day. If we treated them like whole people with thoughts, opinions, voices, desires, dreams that both include their children and extend beyond them. If we asked them to participate and contribute, even if the answer will most likely be, “Sorry, I can’t, I have the kids” or “Sorry, I can’t, that’s naptime.”

There’s so much I want to do and share and be a part of. There always has been. Having a baby hasn’t taken those things away—it’s actually added to them, clarified them, made them more urgent. It just seems like now there’s an extra barrier to overcome in doing so, because now I’m invisible.

Is a lot of this on me? Definitely. I’m shy and quiet already, and a cute toddler is an easy shield to hide behind. I was working hard to break out of my shell and put down roots in my church when pregnancy and the pandemic came together as the perfect storm of excuses to stay in my comfort zone. And there have been many weeks I’ve skipped out on community-building activities just because wrestling the squirmy 19-month-old seemed too overwhelming.

But I’m trying, and I’m going to keep trying. Thankfully, my Jesus is famous for being the One who sees the invisible.