On of my big mother’s day gifts today was the sudden realization that my children are artfully and skillfully picking up the fine art of procrastination from me. Or us, really, because hey, two English majors. Anyway, it is later than I want it to be now, about an hour after they should be in bed, and I can hear them pattering around upstairs. I feel like on Mother’s Day I have to be extra patient, in order to feel worthy of the attention. I get frustrated with my own lack of patience, sometimes. I wish I could keep it out of my voice when they want seventeen glasses of water after I’ve put them to bed, but I’m just not great at patience. How does one practice that? There’s gotta be some tricks to learning it, and real true patience, too, not just learning to deal with impatience better.
It took me a long time to sit down here and do this. I made tea, scrolled around the interweb, took far too long with my music choice, had the above realization, and then started. I’m super wiped out from our day though, which included a big walk and cookies, so I’m going to write a mom poem and go to bed.
Most of the time
Truth is, most of the time it is a struggle
to be worthy of the garishly-dyed daisies you gave me this morning, on Mother’s Day. Most of the time my brain is so tired it runs in tunes and not words, and I know in my bones, on the level of cosmos, that I am fucking shit up. Whole days, or nearly, spent worried and trying to find things I did not lose, tying shoes that are never on my feet, feeding you what I hope isn’t an inappropriate amount of sugar even though it is the easiest and most fun thing to win you over with.
I had no part in the losing of this, this item whose value to you I clearly cannot comprehend, and I feel selfish when my patience falters when demonstrating the bunny ear method complete with double knot, because someday soon you will have to learn to do this on your own because I won’t be there to do it for you, which makes me sad, but also glad, because you will be out having adventures, I feel selfish all day long, and this is a black hole of guilt, when I get bored playing and fail to cover it up, when I decide not to read one more, when the detritus of my adulthood tunes you out, when I stop the game early, all these minutes are on the event horizon, waiting to be sucked in. When I worry that my distraction will be your future therapy, and paranoid dream every possible way the world could injure you as my penance for not paying close enough attention to the loving minutes that are patience like pure starlight, those minutes are the black hole in reverse, all the love in the universe comes puking back out, galaxies and clusters of it spewed back in my face like so many of your sneezes,
all the light returning to me by its own proper gravity.
Well, that could’ve gone better. I’m not crazy about this, but it is honest, those are really feelings, so that’s something, I guess. I’m now headachey and ready to be done with this screen. Happy Sunday night to you.