We are the Mamas,
a schizophrenic brood,
But we don’t listen to the voices
in our heads. Not anymore.
We learned long ago
that those cannot be pleased.
Just as we sat to fingerpaint,
they reminded us of the dishes
in the sink.
And again as we occasionally
broke down and scrubbed our floors
“You know you shouldn’t use the T.V.
for a babysitter.”
No, we learned long ago
the delicate art
of showing them all the door.
Of standing tall
with an unapologetic look
that says “Shut up...
I’m surviving here.”
Eventually, for each of us, a louder,
stronger voice had to be found.
Our own brand of motherhood,
perfected on the fly.
Right or wrong,
bought with the tears of
lessons learned.
Promising nothing,
but the best that we can do,
And all our hearts
poured into this thing we call
motherhood.
