Motherhood

Motherhood is the fraying thread on the edge of a sweater.

Give him a turn.

Don't take that from her. 

Don't say anything. 

Let them work it out. 

Resist.

Resist.

Resist pulling it.

Give in.

Motherhood is the final bit of sticky tape on the roll. 

Swim lessons at 5:15. 

Dinner. 

Homework. 

Bath and lotion and trimming nails and combing hair. 

Stretch. 

Stretch. 

Stretch to hold it all in place. 

Give up. 

Motherhood is the last crumbling hunk of your husband’s deodorant. 

Did they eat one yellow vegetable and two green?

I need to scrub that stain in the carpet. 

He needs twenty minutes of reading time today. 

Did I start the dishwasher? 

Last.

Last.

Last through the day and the night.

Give out.

Motherhood is the crumbs of the last piece of rich chocolate cake.

Consuming the tendons at the nape of his neck. 

The delicate skin of her temple. 

The fur of his eyebrows, crisscrossed to and fro. 

The soft fuzz and double whorl on the back of her head. 

Inhale.

Inhale.

Inhale every sensation.

Give thanks.