LAUGHTER
THE TODDLER
Once upon an evening early, while I Netflixed weak and surly
Into many a full and mixerless glass of Jack Daniel’s poured
While I faded, body rocking, suddenly there came a knocking
And the sound of someone talking, talking when it’s time to snore
“’Tis my tod-dl-er, “ I muttered, “knocking at my bedroom door,“
And with that, I gently swore
Ah, distinctly I remember, how my hope did so dismember
As the sleepy child entered like a ghost declaring war
Eagerly I wished for the morrow-or a place without such sorrow
Turned my head to heaven wishing, wishing I could sleep some more
Sleep. The rare and radiant maiden whom the toddler made folklore
Never here forevermore
And with that, I gently swore
MOTHERHOOD REQUIRES MORE SACRIFICE THAN I REALIZED
AND EVEN MORE CARBOHYDRATES
If muffin tops
are the best part
mothers are delicious
dear mother,
a moment of silence and respect
for whoever invented leggings
they did it for us
what you lose in sleep
you gain in never
having to buy an alarm clock
again
SHOWERS ARE BOTH
UNDERRATED
AND OVERRATED
AT THE SAME TIME
they say you should do one thing
every day that scares you
today that will be
taking my three-year-old
down the cereal aisle
GIFT IDEAS FOR HER
–sincere apologies
–snuggles without the expectation that it will lead to more
–helping without being asked
–doing your own emotional labor
–pajama pants
WHAT A PITY
WHAT A SHAME
WHAT A TRAGEDY
THAT DINNER WON'T MAKE ITSELF
I’ve never scaled Everest
or jumped out of a plane at 12,000 feet
But I have taken three kids
to the grocery store at five o’clock
so don’t tell me I’m not living
dangerously
You don’t know frustration
until you’ve tried to give a toddler
a snack while driving
dear mother,
any scientist worth their degree
will tell you that
groceries need a full day to mature
after purchase
stop for pizza
At some point
I realized
that the most off-putting ingredient
in my recipes
was the amount of effort
I put into making them
IF YOU CAN SAY
"SIT DOWN AND EAT"
FORTY-FIVE TIMES IN FORTY-FIVE MINUTES
YOU'RE READY TO BE A PARENT
IS IT EVEN DINNER
IF NOBODY POOPS?
to make a two-year-old,
combine one puppy
one incontinent octopus
and a single juice box–loving gangster
mix until it starts slapping
IF MY LAUNDRY IS NOT ALIVE
HOW DO I FEEL IT JUDGING ME?
dear mother,
hoodies are
semi-formal now
you’re fine
I’ve done the math
and I can hear “mommy”
145 times in a day
before it sounds
like an enema feels
only parents and medical professionals
regularly ask other people
if they have to poop
dear mother,
running up the slide is wrong
unless the park is empty
time flies when you’re having fun
but when you’re putting
a three-year-old to bed
it mostly just laughs
IT’S MY OPINION
THAT CHILDREN SHOULD BE REAR FACING
UNTIL AT LEAST EIGHTEEN
dear mother,
you can never spend too much
on Etsy
anyone who says otherwise
does not love you
A four-year-old is a cross between
a dictator
and a lamb
Modern parents don’t ask babysitters for references
We want to know who you voted for
your rising sign
and your opinion on fruit juice
dear mother, waking up before the sun again
one day they will be teenagers
and the revenge will be sweet
hold on
TEARS
On the nights that are too much
what keeps my eyes
and heart open
is knowing that somewhere
out there
another mother is gazing into the moon
doing the exact same thing
There’s no such thing as
strong women
or weak women
We’re just women
who do what we must
until we can’t
It’s always the innocent mothers
the ones so earnestly trying
who feel the most guilt
and take their harmless human
shortcomings to bed
tucking them in
for another night of regret
It feels good to cry sometimes
sloppy tears in my empty minivan
overwhelmed
exhausted
wishing someone would say,
“There there, you’re just tired,
off to bed with you,”
and rub my back
until my sniffles are calmed
into gentle breaths
the most exhausting part of
being a mom
is running alongside
your worries
dear mother,
store-bought
is fine
There’s no one
mothers love more
than the person who sees us
struggling, sweating, juggling
and silently,
without ceremony,
helps
OH MOTHER
DO NOT WASTE YOUR DAYS
COMPETING
WITH THE PHOTOGRAPHS
OF STRANGERS
Motherhood is a madness I only wish to sink deeper into
for as I admire the scruffy edges of my children
marvel at the unfinished seams of their untempered natures
I realize that I wasn’t made for everybody
and that, like my children,
and all rare gems,
I am not common
Motherhood has taught me
that when I depend on fun house filters to feel beautiful
set my steps to the demanding tick tock of their
accomplishment metronome
and let myself marinate in my own cruel comparisons
be rubbed raw by grating expectations
I waste my moment to streak across the black sky
a shooting star
(one minute there, the next gone forever)
soul on pause
suspended by the fear
of being too messy
forgetting
that I’ve always been
and will always be
the right amount
Your home is enough
with its messy bedrooms
cluttered kitchen
baskets full of mismatched socks
for no adult
has ever looked at their therapist
face forlorn
eyes full of tears
heart broken
and said
“If only the dishes had been done.”
YOUR WORTH AS A MOTHER
IS NOT DEFINED
BY THE STATE OF YOUR LIVING ROOM
Nothing’s wrong, it’s just hard. “This is unbearable,“ I think as I listen
to my children bicker.
It’s not yet dawn, but they’re awake and their belligerent voices are
an assault on my still-sleeping senses.
Nothing’s wrong, it’s just hard.
My youngest, his cute chubby face hidden by a raggedy stuffed bear, shakes his head furiously at the breakfast in front of him.
I know he’s hungry.
I sigh and turn to face the stack of soiled dishes I would have done
last night had I not overdrawn on my energy reserves.
Nothing’s wrong, it’s just hard.
My oldest two tear apart the laundry pile hunting for socks. Despite this being a daily occurrence, I have failed to organize myself and
my home.
Maybe today?
Doubtful.
I hurriedly pack lunches healthier than I ate as a child but somehow still not good enough by today’s standards. Is string cheese a protein?
Nothing’s wrong, it’s just hard.
I put my coat over my pajamas and give my children a once-over, making sure they look like they come from a home with a mother who cares.
Close enough.
If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late. Someone can’t find a shoe. My youngest can’t tear himself away from his shows. He’s eating now.
Of course he is.
My oldest is lost in worries over a test I wish I’d helped her prepare more for. My middle is lost in the angst of being the middle. Note to self: give her more attention (the positive kind). My keys no longer
exist in this dimension.
Nothing’s wrong, it’s just hard.
Eventually, we all get where we need to go and I’m sipping a warm,
sweet drink purchased like a prayer at a drive-thru. The day got
going and all it cost me were a few gray hairs.
Nothing’s wrong, it’s just hard.
Motherhood and life, two dishes messy enough on their own but when combined form a savory, chunky stew: thick and bubbling with potatoes, carrots, herbs and chunks of tender meat in seasoned gravy.
To be eaten at room temperature. With someone in your lap begging
for bites, neck outstretched like a baby bird.
Nothing’s wrong, it’s just hard.
If you can’t figure out
a way to share your
parenting choices
without diminishing
those of others
be quiet
I never realize how tired I am
Until they’re in bed
And I collapse
My body no longer having to pretend
to be awake
I want to say sweet things at night
But all that comes out of my mouth
Are my thoughts, unfiltered
I want to end the day gently
But my nerves are all exposed and frayed
Zapping whoever gets too close
I want to be at my best before their souls drift off to wherever they rest
But instead I’m at my worst
Lie down and wait for me
I call from downstairs
Knowing I’m not coming
Lie down and wait for me
Wait for the day to slough off
My tired body like scales
For my dulled mind to replenish itself as I scroll through my phone
Not thinking, just being, not talking, just being
Just being, what a luxurious existence
Wait for me, I call to the child
And while you’re waiting
Fall asleep
I DON’T HATE YOU
I’M JUST TIRED
dear mother,
on the days you can barely pull yourself from bed
head throbbing
eyes sore
from a night of crying
crawl to the kitchen
fix that cup of coffee
and know that you’re not
the only broken amazon
making her way through the rainforest
Sometimes we give from the heart
Other times from the bone
Knowing that the quickest way back to one’s pillow
is to meet the child where they are
The hardest task as a mother
is not in the daily picking up
of dirty solo socks or
toys abandoned mid-play
but in the daily picking up of oneself
when the mind, body, and spirit
are weak
and would love nothing more than to
tunnel under the downy bedsheets
into a secret world of silence
pillows, clouds, and coffee
dear mother,
on the days the clouds refuse to part
don’t worry about form
take the shortcut
be a bit late
order the pizza
go to drop-off in those flannel pajama pants
be barefaced
while your war may be invisible
it is real
and your only job
is to survive
These days, I prefer to be alone
Not because I dislike people
But because loneliness follows me
Whether anyone is there or not
So at least when I’m alone
Feeling alone
For a moment
I make sense
I live with my back against a bulging door
and on the other side
churning waters rise
but I push back with all of my strength
listening to the frame creak and whine
knowing that any moment it’ll all come down
on top of me
drowning me violently
my arms ache
and my knees wobble
as I hold the door
keep holding the door
dear mother,
on the days the pain is too great
and you dream of flying away
wrap the blanket around yourself
close your eyes
and imagine a future bursting at the seams
with your wildest dreams
let it tickle your psyche
giggle at the preposterousness of it all
and stay
Depression isn’t sadness
It’s the muting of a spirit
Applause for life held indefinitely
It’s the fatigue of young bones
The bitterness of new blood
The sadness is just the wilting ga
rnish
on this empty plate
In real wars
the enemy speaks a different language
worships a different god
or at least waves a flag of different colors
but in mine
we share the same skin
call the same skull home
and my secrets flow from my heart
to my adversary’s ears
how do you fight a battle
when the foe
is tangled within you?
the casualties
are your memories?
how do you know
when you’ve won?
anxiety isn’t about being shy
it’s your body living in the present
while your mind dwells
amongst your favorite nightmares
dear mother,
no
they would not
be better off
without
you
In a mother’s love
the only heartbreak
is when they do
what you have prepared them for:
leave
Mothers with invisible children
walk among us
We see the one in her stroller
We see the one in her arms
But the one in her heart is