Yeah, thank-you for that blank stare,
that one you gave, when you realized
what you let-go from your mouth.
Oh yes, that was ignorance defined.
You ask, “how do you do it,
don’t you miss them when they’re away
from you? I couldn’t do it.”
Miss my sons? But it’s only been two hours
since I’ve seen them last.
Who is taking care of them?
“Oh but daddies just don’t
do it like mommies do.” Read the rest of this entry
— I’m just going to post some stuff I wrote a ways back. Because, well, I want to.
This one I wrote back in the day (and by back in the day, I mean last year), when I was in the worst of the ppd. I thought I’d post it again, because I was praying about a friend and her parenting struggles, but then I started thinking about six other friends, and all the things they go through every day, and I thought it could use some reading again.
April 7, 2010
April is a month set aside for poetry, and I stumbled again, on this clip of a mother who cares less about what others think of her than I am capable of. I want to be this mother – sign me up for the tattoos, the sweater, the cropped haircut, even the skull and cross-bone broach. If it means, that I can stop caring about what people think. Read the rest of this entry
feel free to keep all your branches tonight.
the homeowner who enjoys both her slate roof and her electricity
Dear Gods of snow days and delayed openings,
any other time of the year you are most welcome, but during exams, you make everything wonky.
the teacher who enjoys things unwonky
Dear food, stop being so good.
the woman who would enjoy wearing some of those old size eight jeans.
Today when I said I quit, and my name wasn’t mommy anymore, it was Tara, and you would have to go to the Mommy Store and pick out a new mommy– yah, sorry about that. After you went to bed, I totally stashed away some money for any therapy you might need in the future.
kisses and hugs,
your mommy, who promise she won’t ever quit
April is a month set aside for poetry, and I stumbled again, on this clip of a mother who cares less about what others think of her – than I am capable of. I want to be this mother – sign me up for the tattoos, the sweater, the cropped haircut, even the skull and crossbones broach. If it means, that I can stop caring about what people think. Read the rest of this entry