The Case of the Invisible Mother

In her ‘feeling-unappreciated’ moments, my Mum often lamented that she was (and I quote); “…the dirt on the ground around here!” And I agree that we mothers certainly do sometimes feel like the unpaid ‘help’. But at least Mum’s claims implied that she was somewhat visible to her children. Unlike poor little me.

You see, I have just uncovered a startling revelation about my youngest son’s impression of me. Which is: he doesn’t really have one!

Evidently to Master Teen I am a faceless fairy that cooks, cleans and loans her car. Any endearing personal qualities are buried under an all-encompassing layer of nondescript ‘Mumness”.

And how have I arrived at this notion of invisibility?

Well, recently Master Teen was trying out his new digital camera; clicking enthusiastically at all manner of domestic activity — a scowling Mum putting away the groceries and finding the BBQ Snacks were already half eaten; a perplexed Mum attempting (in futility) to match up twenty-seven odd socks — you know, the regular scenes of domestic bliss.

But Little Mr Snaparazzi was in for a surprise when later, looking through the snapshots, he discovered a strange thing.

“Why do you look so much like Auntie Rosie in these photos?” he demanded, a confused furrow denting his young brow. “Look! It’s the same in every one of them!”

He then raised his eyes to gaze fully upon my face and the brow-furrow suddenly switched to astonishment.

“Jeez, you really do look like Auntie Rosie!” he marveled.

“Haven’t you ever noticed that?” I asked.

“Nah,” he breathed, scanning me like I was some kind of rare artifact in an Egyptian museum. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never actually looked at you before!”

“Well, that’s just lovely!” I snorted, not sure whether it was hilarious or tragic.

Imagine. You’ve seen this kid every day of his life and yet, somehow, there’s still doubt as to whether he would actually recognize you if you ran into each other in a foreign city! I decided it was best to be amused. After all, the alternative is disturbing; the scenario going something like this:

“Well…” mutters the young international traveler, eyeing you suspiciously as you approach him with motherly enthusiasm at the Louvre or the Coliseum, “I must admit you do look vaguely familiar….. Oh yes, now I remember…you remind me of that woman who used to clean up my room …now, what was her name again?”

Ah well, at least there is potentially an ‘up’ side to this story.

If I ever turn to a life of crime, I could steal Master Teen’s most prized possessions and he would never pick me from the Police Line-up.

Hmm; now there’s an idea! I’ve always wanted an iPod….