anchored in light

A lifestyle blog about finding light in every avenue of life

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Poems of Motherhood | May




5/13/18
As a mother I’ve learned the weight of you in my arms
The way to tuck you against my breast in our bed as the room starts to lighten so that my arm becomes your pillow
I’ve found that the list of what I will give for you is never ending 


5/14/18

I'm learning the weight of motherhood
how it pushes down on the fragile edges
breaking me down to the core of who I am
pouring all the deep emotions deeper than they've ever gone


5/15/18

These are the good days
using endless amounts of tissues
wrapping you tight against my chest to sleep
watching the pale pink lilies unfold
that your daddy got me for Mother's day

Normally I hate lilies
but these have changed my mind

Your daddy fed me sweet pineapple on the lovesac
while I held you in my lap
use my hidden kiss to get you to take your binky
(whom we affectionately call Sophie)
one kiss on the forehead
while your lightning fast fingers
tangle in my hair
like a security blanket

your cries crackle in your chest
you nearly grab the gray and white scrunchie off my wrist
grabbing little things to keep me with you


5/15/18

I'm embracing the mess and
tangle of life
the hair that does what it wants
the dishes in the sink
the scattered sand over the moments
of watching you slow blink your way to sleep
with moments of aching backs and sad cries


5/16/18

We woke up together
usually this is accompanied by cries
but today
you opened your eyes
smiled at me
those beautiful eyes
I could wake up
like that
every day


5/21/18

You won't always think my arm is your favorite pillow
or, open your eyes to my face
so for now
I'll cuddle your body close to mine
for now
I'll enjoy the little print your ear makes on my arm each morning

5/22/18
The edge of me used to come right to my skin
Until the day that you were born
Then the edge of me somehow stretched and wrapped itself around you

5/23
I love the way you nurse
Curled close around me
Draping into my lap
With hands alternately plucking my clothes like strings
Or settling your hand so gently on my breast

5/25/18

This morning I walked with you. tight against my chest and for the first time you seemed bigger to me. the length of your back under my hands spanning further than I remember, making it seem that you're leaping forward, more than outgrowing clothes and swaddles.
we stopped by the river, on a little bank with white flowers growing on leafy bushes. stepping off the sidewalk we startled some squirrels. so I told you about your great-grandfather, my mother's dad, and how he was friends with a squirrel named Sammy and how they'd thought that Sammy was a boy until she had babies.
we walked a little farther and I saw a little set of white painted outdoor furniture. The kind that your great grandmother, my mother's mom, had on the porch of her tiny east side house.
you feel asleep as we walked and I talked to you about trees and baby birds and how those mama ducks were worried that we were going to touch their babies.
I looked at these tiny houses that I'd once despised, maybe because they made me think of old people and the dark of my grandmother's house, everything old and vaulable, untouchable, with walls layered in tar from her cigarettes we weren't supposed to know that she smoked.
Now I want a little house. Fill it up with babies and memoried and the joy of being a family. with home cooked meals and messes made by those i love.
while we walked and you slept we settled into silence and I thought wat a beautiful life this is.
now you're sleeping in a pile of swaddle, the sound of ocean waves shushing you to sleep.
a beautiful life indeed.



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