The Things She Didn’t Do

May 2010 Issue

By Stephanie McMillan
Sixty eight days. This was the number of days of school
I missed during sixth grade due to strep throat. I have fairly clear memories of that year: popsicles, Jello, pudding, watching Annie a countless number of times, reading plenty of books. I can visualize a checked green blanket and swirly green carpeting out of the corner of my eye as I spent yet another day on the couch.

Mostly, I can see my mom. I remember her rubbing my back, taking me to the doctor, sitting with me for the throat swab. I remember her getting a tray ready with food that I probably wouldn’t eat.

As I’ve looked back at this sick year and other moments from my life, I love her for each of these things, for all she did for me. And her love was not confined to just this year. I love her for washing my clothes, cleaning up my puke, helping me stick wax to my braces . . . and for a million other unglamorous things she did for me.

More recently, I have come to the startling realization that even more, I love her for something else. I love her for the things she did not do: complain, whine, bemoan her lot in life, or burden me with guilt.

She may indeed have done that behind closed doors. She might have vented to the mirror in the bathroom or complained to my dad after a long day. But I didn’t see it and don’t recall it. The only thing I remember feeling on those sick days (and many others) was love.

She must have been frustrated with a little girl who was frequently sick that year. She must have been tired of co-pays. She must have been tired of watching Annie for the millionth time. She must have had to stay home from my brother’s events to take care of me. She must have been tired of refrigerated pink liquid medicine given to a child who refused to learn to swallow. She must have been tired of waking up in the middle of the night for Tylenol. She must have wanted to do something else.

None of that had ever occurred to me until I became a mother. Because the only sense I got from her was love and concern for me.

I’ve thought long and hard about this as my own children have grown, as they have moved beyond bottle feedings and spitting up to their childhood years. I have at times felt a sense of frustration and fatigue, of feeling caught up in this world of motherhood.

When my oldest went through a bout of bad dreams, I wanted to scream, “GO TO SLEEP!” But then I remembered my mother. I remembered her care and concern for me. And
I realized that the feeling of security I had as a constant in my life was because of the love she showed me through her actions.

I know that’s what I want for my children. I want them to remember that I loved them, that I snuggled them and held them through their tears. I want them to view me proudly as a puke catcher and wound cleaner. I want to give them that gift of secure love that they don’t even stop to consider. It was one of the greatest gifts my mother gave to me.

Satan tries to distance us from those feelings. He constantly throws at us pictures in the media of beautiful, glamorous women who can do it all and have it all. We rarely see images of real mothers who live real lives and find joy in the face of the mundane. Satan wants us to be dissatisfied.

If we look to the scriptures, however, Christ’s life was the ultimate example of selfless service devoid of complaint. Christ was largely unappreciated and overlooked. When he was noticed, it was often negative. He was reviled and spit upon. He was mocked and scourged. Yet he continued on with a surety of his mission, of his purpose in life. If we ever feel unloved or underappreciated, surely we can turn to our Savior for understanding. He will help us remember our mission, our divine purpose as women and mothers. His was a flawless example of parenting.

There will come a day when my boys will be too big for comfort, when they won’t want me to come snuggle in their bed to chase away bad dreams. There will be a day when they will be in an apartment somewhere hours away and I won’t be able to hold them while they throw up. That day seems like miles away, but it will come.

And so, for now, I will try to love them. I will carry on the legacy of love with which my mother blessed my life. And starting today, I will try to remember that they won’t just feel love in the things I do for them, but also in the things I don’t.