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The Invisible Work of Motherhood (and a Garbage Truck That Broke Me)
Published 2/25/26
This morning, on my drive to work, I saw something so small that it almost disappeared into the rush of the day.
But also was a complete gut punch.
It was just a mom in the car next to me at a red light.
Her hair was pulled back in the kind of way that doesn’t feel like a hairstyle so much as a necessity.
Her face looked tired, not in a dramatic way, not in a way that begged for attention, but in the quiet,
familiar way that says life has been full lately.
The kind of tired you don’t fix with one good night of sleep.
A Tiny Moment of Wonder
And then, as traffic slowed, a garbage truck rolled by.
And this mom, this exhausted, probably running-on-coffee-and-adrenaline mom, lifted her hand and pointed.
Just pointed.
And I knew, instantly, there was a little one in the backseat.
Maybe strapped into a car seat with snack crumbs scattered around. Maybe holding a sippy cup. Maybe wearing pajamas under a jacket because mornings are a lot.
And that little one was probably thrilled.
Because garbage trucks are not ordinary when you’re two. They’re massive. They’re magical. They’re a parade. And this mom, even in her exhaustion, made sure her child didn’t miss it.
The Quiet Work of Motherhood
That moment landed in my chest in a way I didn’t expect.
Because it reminded me of something we forget until it hits us sideways:
Motherhood is made up of a thousand tiny gestures no one applauds.
The pointing.
The noticing.
The pausing.
It’s easy to think the big moments are what matter. The birthday parties. The vacations. The milestones we photograph and frame.
But most of life, the real life, is built in the in-between. It’s built in carpool lines and grocery store aisles and early mornings when you’re tired but still showing up. It’s built in pointing at garbage trucks.
How Fast It All Goes
And I couldn’t stop thinking about how fast it all goes.
How one day, that little one won’t care about garbage trucks. They’ll be looking at a phone instead of out the window. They’ll be too cool, too busy, too grown. And this mom, this tired mom, will probably miss it. Because I miss it, as a tired mom with two growing boys.
She’ll miss the way wonder lived so close to the surface. The way joy was so easy. The way the world was still full of exciting, ordinary things. That’s what makes these moments so tender. They’re fleeting. They’re almost invisible. And they are everything.
The Moments We Don’t Want to Forget
So here’s what I hope for that mom today:
She gets a nap.
She feels seen.
She knows she’s doing better than she thinks.
And here’s what I hope for all of us:
That we don’t rush past the small things.
That we notice the magic hiding in the mundane.
That we remember how quickly time moves.
Because someday, we’ll look back and realize the sweetest parts were never the grand events.
They were the quiet red lights. The tired faces. And the simple act of pointing something out to someone you love.
We talk about the invisible labor of motherhood, the mental load, the remembering, the planning, but sometimes it’s as simple as pointing out a garbage truck when you’re exhausted.
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