Dear Mother Read online

  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

  then it’s right

  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