It doesn't come easy to me,
this talking to kids who are three.
Or getting no thanks for putting them first.
I guiltily long to be free.
I put little Zoey to bed,
left stories and songs in her head.
The door is half open, the hall light is on.
I flop on the ground. I am dead.
A plaintive voice sounds in the hall.
It's Isaak's turn now, after all.
Resentment and guilt weigh me down, pull me up,
and into his bedroom I crawl.
As I read him The Cat in the Hat
in my heart I am terrified that
someday I'll read this to a son of my own
loathing the work I begat.
I tell myself it's not a sign
of how I'd feel if they were mine.
But this practice motherhood's lonely and dreary,
and being a good mom is still just a theory,
I can't even think straight, I'm dirty and weary;
This has to be something divine
because otherwise nobody in their right minds would ever do it.
2 comments:
Sarah, you're such a poet. I've still kept all of your little notes of poems you ever wrote me. ;)
I love this. You've perfectly depicted many of the feelings I've had. Though it does help when they're your own kids. Babysitting, however, has the advantage of ending after a set time, whereas momming doesn't. I've come to realize that (for me anyway) motherhood must be fulfilling in the long term and not so much in the short term. At least I sure hope so!
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