Motherhood: Invisible Yet Irreplaceable

 
The New Mum
Once upon a time, she was a woman with a name. A person who had hobbies and a fulltime job. She drank tea while it was still hot. She read books that didn’t include the words “fluffy”, “dinosaurs”, or “lift-the-flap”. And then, boom! The baby arrived. And with it, her magical powers: the ability to survive on 1.5 hours of sleep, identify a toy in the middle of the night, and perhaps most astonishingly…disappear.
Before long, people stop seeing her and see only the baby in her arms. The dark circles, the undone hair—none of it matters as much as the role she now fills: the one who feeds, changes, soothes. Her former identity fades, replaced by a singular purpose. Where once they said, “She’s such a bright young woman,” they now ask, “Isn’t she the baby’s mum?” as though she’s handed in her real name at the delivery ward and now answers solely to Amma, Mumma, or Moooommm! depending on the age and volume of the child.
Mothers have perfected the art of eating lunch standing up and behind fridge doors. They are the ones who get asked “Mummy, where’s my dinosaur toy?” before the poor woman has had her morning coffee. And just when she sits down to eat her lunch “Mum, I need to poo.” It’s not just the home, mind you. The school drop-off line? Full of invisible mothers powering the morning machinery. She’s the logistics department, snack consultant, and emergency arts-and-crafts expert.
An Indian mother is a walking polyglot with a practical PhD in code-switching. She doesn’t just raise children. She raises them in three languages, minimum. English is for manners, Mother tongue is for matters of the heart, and gibberish is for manipulating small humans into eating spinach. She flips from Queen’s English to auntie sarcasm to animal-noise theatre, depending on audience and crisis level. And when she’s mad? She invents whole new languages on the spot. MI5 and BBC Radio could both learn a thing or two from the linguistic gymnastics she performs.
And what does she get in return?
Silence when she walks into the room. But explosive chaos when she leaves it.
The Old Mum
Old Mum doesn’t flinch anymore. She’s been through the trenches: school fairs, gastro bugs and friendship dramas. She’s graduated. Not “old” as in shawl-wearing and sipping tea (though let’s be honest, a quiet cuppa sounds divine). No, Old Mum is seasoned. Wisened. She has seen things.
She used to read parenting books. Now she reads her child’s mood from the way they close a door. It’s a sixth sense. She’s survived chicken pox outbreaks and lost jumpers.
Her handbag? A black hole of brilliance. Need a plaster? She has five. A pen? Yes. Glue stick? Absolutely. Snacks? Always. Receipt from 2016? Of course. Her bag could survive a small apocalypse.
She doesn’t care what other mums are doing. Technology doesn’t faze her either. She’s the go-to tech support in the house, especially for resetting the Wi-Fi or remembering everyone’s passwords.
She’s not trying to be cool anymore. She is warm, she is firm, she is real. And when the noise dies down, the lights dim, and her child finally go to sleep, often later than they should, Old Mum takes five minutes just for herself. Sometimes with a glass of water, sometimes with silence. Sometimes with an existential scroll through Instagram.
She doesn’t panic when her child is heartbroken, or confused, or trying to grow up too fast. She listens, she makes tea, and sometimes, if the moment calls for it, she’ll make dosas at 10 p.m. That’s love, in her language.
Because Old Mum doesn’t over-parent anymore. She underlines, supports, nags where necessary, and always…always shows up.
The Return of the Visible Mother (A Plot Twist)
But somewhere along the way when the child stumbles, flounders, something shifts.
They look back and see her. Really see her. Not just the feeder or the scheduler or the magician of missing socks. But a woman with her own stories, sacrifices, dreams filed away like old report cards. A woman who chose love over ambition, or sometimes both. Who redefined success not by promotions but by packed lunches and strong children.
She becomes visible again—not all at once, but slowly. In stories shared. In habits inherited. In the way her child boils tea just the way she liked it.
And One Day…
Her child will say, “My mum used to do this,” with a fondness that no award can rival.
Because that’s the thing about invisible mothers: they never disappear. They become legacy.
A Final Word
Motherhood, whether brand new or decades deep, is both a sacrifice and a triumph. So yes, she might be invisible. But like any good superhero, her impact is undeniable.
It’s Mother’s Day in the US this weekend which means the internet’s full of florals and tributes again, just weeks after Brits already did the whole thing during Lent.
Still, who’s counting? I’m just chuffed to have had a brilliant mum and fairly proud to be one too.
Happy Mother’s Day, whenever you celebrate it.