I.

Before I was a mother
I had a mother of my own.
She never read me stories,
she never stood her ground,
she never even picked me up
when I was feeling down.
She worked at a factory
in the middle of our small town,
at home she smoked and slept and cleaned
and played solitare til dawn.
I never understood her,
why she was the way she was,
but I know that she was tired and alone
in taking care of all of us.



II.

Before I was a mother,
I thought, "How hard can all this be?"
I never really got it,
but now it's happening to me.
I'm different kind of mother, though--
as I'd promised myself I'd be.
I play and sing and stand my ground.
I also sit and read.



III.

I'm surrounded by small hands and feet
and fingerprints on walls.
I cook and clean and even kiss
their boo-boos when they fall.
Milk spills and things break. These will be forgotten.
What matters more is the care I take
in the blessings I have gotten.



IV.

And as I type my children play,
not with their me or each other,
but with the woman I knew as 'Mom'
before I was a mother.

12/02/2007

Author's Note: This was supposed to be a journal entry about what life was like before I became a mother. This is what it turned into. It came out sing-songy and nursery-rhyme-ish and I like it that way.

Posted on 12/02/2007
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