The Quiet Work of Motherhood

There is something about the changing of seasons that makes me reflective. (And yes, I know we're still in the midst of summer but the days are getting shorter and I live for fall so I'm getting excited.) Perhaps it’s the way the light shifts across the kitchen table, or the first cool morning that calls for a warm sweater and a mug clasped between tired hands. As the garden begins to surrender what it faithfully produced all summer (which for me was a ton of weeds and the odd piece of produce) and the evenings grow shorter, I find myself looking back to when Lochlan was still here, and he and Luke were wild and wonderful little boys barrelling through the house with stories, and giggles, and muddy feet.

Motherhood has a way of doing that to a person. Reminiscing on life with two children sure does it for me. We spend our days so close to the work that it’s easy to miss what is actually growing, and most days certainly don’t feel remarkable. Most days are defined by laundry folded into uneven piles, crumbs swept from beneath the table for the hundredth time, answering impossible questions from a curious child, and reheating a cup of tea that somehow went cold… again. On days like those, it can feel as though nothing meaningful happened at all.

But the seasons have taught me otherwise. A seed doesn’t become a harvest overnight; it grows quietly, beneath the surface, long before anyone notices. Children are the same. Character is formed in ordinary Tuesday mornings. Confidence is built through countless small opportunities to try again. Curiosity grows one conversation, one story, and one muddy adventure at a time.

We so often measure our worth by what we accomplished today:

• Did we finish the lesson?

• Did we keep the house clean?

• Did everyone get along?

• Did I remember every appointment?

  
  

The truth is, those things matter far less than we think they do. Years from now, our children are unlikely to remember whether the floors were spotless or whether every box on our to-do list was checked. They will remember how home felt. They’ll remember the smell of bread in the oven, afternoons spent wandering through the woods, stories read aloud on rainy days, and laughter that interrupted the lesson plan. Above all, they’ll remember the grace they received when they made mistakes, and when we did, too.

But we rarely stop to ask what we will remember. What do we, as mothers, need from these fleeting years?

We need to be present enough to actually witness them. We need to pause long enough to anchor ourselves in the moments that matter, because time moves with a quiet, relentless speed, and life can change in ways we never prepared for. When I look back, I don't remember whether the floors were swept or the lesson plan was completed. What stays with me, what settles deep into my soul, is the profound privilege of simply having been there. I think of Luke and Lochlan, of their shared laughter, their muddy boots, and the irreplaceable magic of watching them experience childhood together. I am so deeply, unendingly grateful that I was present for it. That I didn't miss it while worrying about the undone.

I’ll confess something: every season, I tell myself this will finally be the year I become one of those wonderfully organized mothers. The kind who labels every storage bin, plans meals a month in advance, and never discovers a forgotten load of laundry souring in the wash. It has yet to happen. Apparently, my natural habitat is somewhere between "reasonably prepared" and "where did I put my coffee?"

I’ve come to realize that’s okay. I have learned that our children don’t need perfect mothers nearly as much as they need present ones. Perhaps they need to see that life is full of unfinished projects, unexpected detours, overcooked muffins, and second chances. And children need to see that joy can still be found right in the middle of it all.

As another season unfolds, I’m trying to hold my days a little differently. Less tightly. Less anxiously. More gratefully. Motherhood was never meant to be measured by flawless days; it is measured in thousands of ordinary moments that slowly, almost imperceptibly, become a childhood.

So if today felt small, if the dishes are still in the sink, if the lesson didn't go as planned, or if everyone ended the day a little more tired than you’d hoped, take heart. The quiet work is still happening. Roots are growing beneath the surface. And one day, almost before you realize it, you’ll look back and discover that while you were busy wondering whether you were doing enough… you were raising a family.

One ordinary season at a time.