Messy

A shout out to my dear friend and fellow poet, Elizabeth Maurer. She bravely invited me and the kids over for a playdate yesterday with her, her dog Max, and their trampoline. Later, she challenged me to write a poem about it and while I initially demurred, some phrases kept bouncing around in my head, trying to get out. 

So Lizzy, it's rough and yes, messy, but this one's for you.

Messy

Being a mother is messy

in ways having nothing to do

with blood, amniotic fluid

snot, urine, vomit

pureed carrots, mashed bananas

mud, grass stains

or crayon on a white wall.

A visit to a childless friend unravels

when three children (mine)

mix with overly friendly dog (hers)

and fancy landscaping (also hers).

The boundaries of whose mother I am blur

when my friend needs me

as much as my son

after he falls off her deck

and scrapes his back and elbows

on the volcanic rocks in her flowerbeds.

How can I explain to her

that next time may still be messy

even if dogs and children

are kept apart?

That being a parent is not just about preventing chaos

by compartmentalizing variables

but accepting it will still be unavoidable

when large minds housed in small bodies

learn the limits of their world

and their wills?

She cannot know

until it happens to her

how a woman’s hands leave the wheel

the instant she conceives

and never return.

I can hope, though

she will open herself, get her hands messy

and find the art of nurture can be learned

only in facing the fear

that what we have to offer 
will never be enough—

that giving up control

before the unthinkable even happens

is what prepares us

to be the calm eye

in the storm.