Mother,
I didn’t understand before, what it meant
to be you, that sacrifice came
in small increments, a half-eaten
plate of rice, mealtime a marathon,
to keep their attention
and appetite fluctuates like embers, a dying fire…
it is—
the space our children take
in our hearts and our lives,
the questions and concerns
that marinate all night
the am I enough,
have I done enough
is today the day
it is—
the filling up of my calendar
with playdates: nothing to do with me
but everything to do with me
it is–
add to cart ten items,
all for them
it is—
holding a pee
while the little one goes
it is—
hearing tiny voices calling
even when they are not
it is—
putting myself out there
as a model for them
because I want to give them a head start
it is—
talking so much, laughing,
forgetting boundaries
because an introvert mum is lonely
it is—
googling
is my baby teething at three in the morning
and hating yourself for going down the rabbit hole
it is—
saying Siri remind me to have me time
and spending that time with thoughts of them
it is—
my heart, opening like a flower
with those hugs and smooches
because why—
why should a gummy smile from a tiny human
fill my heart, let the petals open in the morning air?
It makes no sense, I know, but
it makes all the sense in the world
because mother is a woman whose heart lives outside,
outside of her chest.
