The Martyred Mom

"Mom, watch. Mom! Watch!"

I turn away from the onion I'm chopping. "Yes, sweetie. I'm watching." And my 5-year-old son executes a twisting "pirouette" that resembles someone slipping on a banana. Then he looks up at me and beams with pride.

"Did you see?" he asks triumphantly.

"Yes, sweetie. I saw. It was wonderful!"

I turn back and chop some more. Before I've diced one slice, my daughter emerges. "Mom, I just made all of my horses wreaths. Want to see?"

"Of course." And I follow her into her room, where she explains the intricate design of each of 7 miniature horse wreaths.

And on and on.

As moms, we spend our day watching. We praise indecipherable art. We applaud awkward dancing. We cheer off-key singing. We watch. We witness.

We martyr.

I read once that martyr means witness. It comes from the Greek and dates to the days of early Christians who claimed to have witnessed the risen Jesus.

What a perfect word for motherhood. Witnessing--the martyrdom of mom--is such an essential act. Children crave to be seen, to be witnessed. All humans crave it, really. And we know that people who do not experience themselves as seen on a deep level are in some fundamental way damaged. Or incomplete.

So we martyr ourselves for our children. We witness the triumphs and tragedies, from first step to graduation and beyond.

And sometimes we mothers can't help but wonder...who witnesses us?