Wednesday, December 19

Words of a Mother

Who would write a sestina? Who other than Mother takes pains to repeat
The same words over and over?
Now I am that mother
Dissecting with joy the fine line between thousands of yeses and nos. Determined to balance
Teaching lessons with granting wishes. All blown to hell by the infernal why why why
And I am off: DON’T TOUCH THAT GET DOWN I SAID NO!

But at least I haven’t yet sunk to because I said so. No
I won’t cut off the crusts yes you must eat that why must I repeat
Myself? Your ears work you can hear you spend all day asking me why
Because you won’t sit down shut up listen don’t make me pull this car over
Wait, relax, close eyes breathe into the center find the inner balance
That fled for cover the day I became my mother

Did you really look? I did, I looked everywhere and cannot find it Mother
Look again don’t make me come up there don’t you dare tell me no
Sit down sit up straight will you finish your plate don’t balance
Your fork on top of your milk. Why? You ask me why I repeat
The same thing over and over and over
Again? I’ll tell you why missy. I’ll tell you why

(not because I said so, don’t say because I said so.) No (breathe deep.) Why
Don’t you wait until you have kids like yourself to mother
One day? Then you’ll understand. You will know why I cry over
Spilt milk when it’s the twelfth cup of the day. I too thought what you’re thinking: No
Way will I ever be like that. I’ll keep my cool. It won’t bother me one bit to repeat
Myself all day long. Close eyes, inhale, exhale, breathe in peace find that balance

Make the lunches, drive the carpools, fix the ponytails, (go to yoga?) balance
the checkbook. I’d fry up the bacon too, but the kids tell me that’s a bad choice. Why
Not eat healthy, mom? Let us recycle, reuse the bags that choke our planet. They repeat
The words that I have been saying. They were listening to mother
Paying attention all this time. Who knew? Fiery explosions in the face of each no
Yet something must have clicked. When this battle is over

It’s over until it rears back on us again. So in the space in between let’s head over
To the park for lunch. No you can’t wear your bathing suit will balance
With yes, we can eat dessert first will balance with no
You cannot ride your bike barefoot. And the seasons they go round and round which is why
Each day we happily do it all again. Another chance to get it right. I am their mother
Day in, day out. They get clean. They get dirty. Wash lather rinse repeat

How did I ever think the almighty No would mean that an issue was over?
Like anything of value, I must repeat it, believe it, live it. Then balance
It out by laughing until tears come. I know why I laugh and cry: I am a Mother.

Wednesday, December 12

Oh the Food

Oh marvelous, muscle-building, life-sustaining food
How lucky are we who have plenty
Or so I thought before I proved incapable of prying open stubborn mouths
Intent on refusing sustenance. They sit, arms folded head shaking against even a taste
Of whatever horror I have concocted within steaming caldrons of sauce. Flavor?
How could I? Mom if you think we’re eating this you’re crazy

Can’t I see the chicken touching the salad and peas rolling willy-nilly crazy
Across the plate? Still I persevere, preparing day upon day unacceptable, inedible food
It appears to me devoid of sauce, unfamiliar even with the disturbing idea of flavor
Though, alas (of course) I am wrong. There is flavor, it is gross, and there is plenty
Of it. So no, though I proclaim it seasoned with sugar, heated in honey, they dare not taste
A single morsel. My daughters, blessed since birth with mouths

That snap shut with enough force to sever a finger should it venture too near the mouths
I thought it my job to feed. And yes, it is likely my genes responsible for such crazy
Limitations on food. I was that kid. A bull-headed child who guarded my refined taste
Of vanilla yogurt and peanut-butter (no crusts!) against all attempt to deny me pure bland food
Though I too was surrounded by plenty
Of opportunities to eat well, I used them instead to finely tune my disdain of flavor

Ah me, the valiant Mother. I accept this challenge to prepare meals sans flavor
Just as I choose to ignore unwarranted nasty remarks emitted through the mouths
Of my babes. My sweet girls who have known nothing but a life of warmth and plenty
Do not believe their false claims at surprise upon discovering I’ve gone crazy
After opening (again!) a lunchbox descending from the afternoon bus chock full of food
That I woke early to prepare (sigh, drag flour-stained hand across brow.) A taste

Me thinks, of their own medicine would be sweet. What daughters, if I refused a taste
Of that delightful yard pie you concocted last summer? Full of the earthy flavor
Of recently bisected worms? I wouldn’t dare. For then tears would threaten to salt the food
I painstakingly placed plain upon your plates. I see your determined mouths
Even in my sleep, set in such scowls, so certain are you that I’ll try something crazy
Like slipping a shade of green into the bottom of your bowl. What’s this? You’ve had plenty

Of plain? And now the repeated exposure to good stuff in your lives o’ plenty
Is making an impact? “Mom (precocious at four) I have a taste
For sushi,” and I entertain visions of lunching with my elegant little ladies (I’m that crazy)
For who knows what mood they will bring, as unreliable as a drunken flavor
Of the week. Sweet utterances lure me to forget the horrors uttered from these same mouths
I acquiesce, order (per request) edamame and California rolls. And of course, they hate the food

I’ll surely go crazy, for millions of sandwiches may seem like plenty
To me, yet for them its simply the ideal food. It’s clearly a matter taste
And only time will flavor that which gains elusive entry into their mouths