My Gut

To all the mommies who do their job with no vacations or sick days.

If you didn’t like this poem, don’t share it. That would be dumb.

If you did like it, or—better yet—if it rang true, I invite you to share it. It would certainly make my Mother's Day.

I met Daddy and his smile made my knees buckle,

so we buckled down,

and now we tell you to buckle up.

And the swish-clicks of the car seat and booster seat and seat belts

tell me that we’re hittin’ the road for a journey that I am evidently on

but unprepared for.

Unprepared to lose the backs of my diamond stud earrings

because they slipped through your fleshy, fumbly fingers

when you “helped” me accessorize.

Unprepared that I would comb through carpet fibers looking for those escape artists

not because I cared whether or not my earrings were in-tact,

but because my gut said, “Kneel. Comb,” when I saw your apologetic eyes filling up with tears.

My gut.

My gut told me I was missing you, then filled with you, and now extends to you,

always aware and never free from the deep purple scars that reflect in the bathroom mirror

and announce, “I have a child.”

My gut churns on date nights with Daddy hoping Grandma remembered to put your pink blankie on top of your covers instead of under them

so your fingers can sift through the minky fabric until the steady waves in your sea-green eyes break in sleep.

My gut holds me prisoner to those eyes.

And I can’t help but feel like I’m giving

and swinging and hugging and praying,

drying tears, sewing tears, painting pictures, buying stickers, fixing lunches, stopping punches,

nursing—no cursing—and I’m short. I run dry.

Because no matter what I give, I never finish.

So I wonder why I don’t fly and live the dreams that filled my gut before Daddy smiled.

But you were once a part of me, and now that you’re apart from me, you’ve taken part of me 

and my gut

will never stop looking after those missing pieces.

So at night when I write and I think all I want is escape,

I realize that if I sliced off my left leg, I’d most likely want it back because how else could I dance?

So baby, remember that I yelled when you asked me to help you put on your socks,

remember that I fell asleep on the floor playing princess, using my plush steed as a pillow,

and remember that I locked the bathroom door to cry because these shoulders you rely on aren’t always strong enough to carry the weight that they bare anyway.

Don’t forget those moments. Hold onto to the truth.

Because it too easily slips through fleshy, fumbly fingers when you read too many posts and blogs and tweets.

And you’ll find yourself on your knees combing through fibers of self-doubt and insecurities when you think you’re not supposed to break.

Good mommies don’t break?

Here is the truth:

Baby, you broke me. My body, my sanity, my soul, my dreams into play-dough pieces

that you ripped and rolled and stretched and stacked

because I am yours.

And, while I fantasize flight—a daytime me-time world with blank pieces of paper and pens that work—

I stay.

Because my name is Mommy.

I fought with this poem for about five months before I thought it said what I wanted. After I had my second baby, I felt a lot like Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree. With my resources exhausted, I started writing this poem wanting to pen motherhood in real light because I was getting tired of the memes that end, "But when I see them smile, it's all worth it." Because that didn't make it all worth it to me. And I became fascinated with the realization that moms just do it. No one teaches a mom to love her children more than herself. No one tells her that she must give over her body and dreams to children. In fact, there are those who choose alternatives. But those who stay, plug on. Why? Because we understand the work we do and choose to do it. We are mommies.

And, finally, a special thanks to Laura Crandell over at Crandell Corner: budget-friendly video for life's happy moments. (www.facebook.com/crandellcorner) It's thanks to her mad skills that my poem finally came alive.

A Raspberry Chat

He pulls his legs up and flop-flop-flops,

they gleefully thump the ground.

With an open, toothless grin, he ska-waaks,

delighted that he has been found.

I scoop him up from his little blue chair

and smash lips to his squishy cheek.

I breathe in baby soap and pears,

planting three kisses to hear him squeak.

We laugh and blow raspberries, our own secret chat.

His hands sloppily seize my chin,

locking my face and requiring that

I stay in this moment with him.

          And I wonder if the adoration I see

          is my baby boy mimicking me.

 

I was playing with my boy and the moments turned into words which turned into a Shakespearean sonnet. Thanks to my sister-in-law, Shalee Jenkins, for the stunning photos of my baby boy.

Find me later this week when I post some slam poetry about being a mother. With the help of the very talented Laura Crandell, we're recording tomorrow. Wish us luck! You won't want to miss it.

Milk Run

My husband put on his coat and shoes

and pecked my lips.

“I’m going to pick up some milk;

do you need anything?”

I could use a few extra hours in the day.

I want the ones with crème filling,

batteries included.

I need three quarts of bubble-gum flavored optimism

and a cup of realism to balance out the side-effects.

Eh . . . forget the realism.

I‘ll substitute a teaspoon of pessimism—I’ve got plenty of that on-hand.

Oh, just one more thing:

When you find the aisle

with heartbreak

and swing dancing lessons

please load up on baby kisses.

They’re seasonal, you know.

And unlike most things,

they won’t be around forever.

Thanks to my husband for the photography-skill. Stay tuned later this week for my Evan sonnet. And this Mother's Day, I will be posting a video of my slam (spoken-word) poem on motherhood that I guarantee you won't want to miss.

If you like what you're reading, please comment, share, and/or follow my blog. Your support keeps me motivated to write more.