When I had one and two children I thought I had it all figured out.
These days with my number five I say,
Stop looking at the baby funny,
You are giving him gas.
Because what do I know
That is what is doing it.
Working hard to re-establish
The authority I thought I had
We skirt the edges of puberty.
Slicing our feet on the sharp shale
The shallow, clean cuts that sting
Leaving no lasting impression.
On the other shore
Managing diaper rash,
Kissing tiny toes,
Pressing my cheek to his belly.
Promising to do better when his time comes around.
‘So many fairy tales begin with the death of the too-good mother. Why? Because initiatory adventure is impossible under the constant, Watchful eye of a protective parent. To live as soulful human beings in this world, our kids must develop An inner mother. They can’t do that if we remain in complete control Of their lives. They can’t do that until they allow the too-good mama To-metaphorically-die.’
-from Whatever, Mom by Ariel Gore
as always I am reading ahead, needing a good two or three years to anticipate the sting.
*keeping myself honest with the Write Alm prompts.
todays is promises, promises