[POST #5 IN MY MEDIUM EXPERIMENT! Last one, so tabulated results and musings soon to follow! If you know, you know. If not, check out my. MEDIUM POST #1 GET MORE FREAKING FOLLOWERS ON MEDUM, Y’ALL! and then you’ll be in the club.]
My identities beat the
shit out of each other.
Am I a writer or am I a mother?
Do I have a color-coded calendar?
Have I finished the laundry?
Do I know what’s for dinner?
Is my ADD so
appallingly
rampant
I’m inhaling
FaceBook
meaning
to stop
and can’t?
Concocting
the perfect
articulate
answer to a
mental health
question
left by a stranger
the first hour
I am awake?
Am I a trained
professional?
Do I laugh
too hard
at a
just okay
skit on SNL?
Do I recognize
and fix
my mistakes?
Gentle reader, what’s your take?
Photo by Laura Chouette on Unsplash
Yeah, okay, caught me!
But oh, was it pretty!
Thoughtfully
crafted
sentences, man
I can
shape them
flow them
empathetically
authentically
onto the
page
keyboard
whatever
gorgeous
use
of
fucking syntax
man
Wasted
on someone
I do not
will not
ever know,
know this,
and do it anyway.
Am I out of my pajamas?
Do I know where my bra is?
Last time I went through dentist hell?
Does the verbing
of adult —
“adulting” —
offend me
just grammatically
or on a cellular level?
Courtesy Erin Ryan Burdette’s iPhone
Are my children thriving?
Is their merriment manic
or brown eyes tired
their deficits
hidden beautifully
destined to turn into
a cough syrup addiction?
Will that reflect poorly
on my parenting?
Is there an expert
I should follow
on social media
upcoming
Zoom call
I should
hop onto
click into
conference
I should attend to
in the hope she
will answer
my awkwardly
raised hand
in the Q & A section?
What question
should I ask?
What inquiry
general enough
to engage
the audience
specific enough
to help
my current situation?
Which is what, exactly?
I can’t remember.
Can you sense my frustration?
Photo by Noah Buscher on Unsplash
The struggle is real
adult attention
deficit disorder
that’s an excuse, ya’ll
not an explanation —
(Wait. Shit. Reverse that.)
Whatever.
I have
no time
No Diagnosis
that allows me to get
To Trader Joe’s
before carpool —
fool me
folded the laundry
seemed doable
before I realized
how
impossible.
And you know,
that’s where
the best prepared
meals are.
That quinoa bowl?
Do you print out
recipes
you don’t make?
Sumptuous meals
you want
to cook
for those
you love dearly
yet for reasons
none too clearly
you forsake?
Do you
find yourself
instead crestfallen
in line at Chik-Fila?
Photo by Florian Klauer on Unsplash
What should I write about?
Who should I be?
These basic inquires
an excruciating
seemingly futile
fucking mystery.
Not 26, y’all,
I’m 50.
I’ve published
plenty, yes —
not a book
not where
I should be
look
be straight
is it too late for me?
Are these thoughts
self-obsessed
clots
swaddled
in Reese’s wrappers
and popcorn kernels
a lack of
personal integrity
or gumption?
Infinitely
better-suited
for a lavender
overpriced
personal journal
from Barnes & Noble
instead of
public consumption?
Photo by Freddy Jimenez on Unsplash
I have an MFA, sure,
but it’s in Acting.
That’s not for counting
but recently I did listen
to “The Obstacle is the Way”
by Ryan Holiday
while I was
driving.
The Stoics
had a lot to say
about how to live
a long-ass time ago
(and so does Ryan).
Though he
should have
used a narrator
IMHO
just saying
it’s hard
to read
your own work clearly
without affectation.
Do I have an agent?
Am I writing on Medium?
Is that embarrassing?
Have I scheduled
my parent-teacher conference?
Am I ready for self-acceptance?
Is our status
in the universe
the great equalizer
in that all of us
are ultimately
alone?
Did I turn the
wrong way
again
on my way home?
Photo by DIEGO SANCHEZ on Unsplash
There was a Greek guy
in the book
Ryan read to me
name started with a D
something ancient
anyway, he inspired me:
If it’s not about time
and it’s just about
the time you
have left;
If it’s not about
what happened
but what can
happen now;
Not about
lamenting
but focusing
on the present
playing field —
then maybe
I can turn
this bullshit
bean of mine
on its head
in a good way.
Something to ponder?
Have I considered
marketing on
social media?
Way easy
online content
for admittedly
mind numbing
stupid shit?
But I’d get paid for it?
Less time
with the kids
and the house
a mess.
But. Right.
In the name of success?
In the name of progress?
Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash
Too many
random
thought
experiments
bumping
into
each other
tearing
each other
apart while
assigning a
completely
unrealistic
to-do list
reminding
mama
tick-tock-tick
that bastard
internal
clock
in
every room
every minute
every day
every breath
there will
never
be
enough
time
there
will
always
be a
test
for which
I am woefully
unprepared.
Would this
pell-mell
trajectory
historically
scare me
but luck would have it
I’m too tired to care?
Photo by Austin Chan on Unsplash
What to do?
Other than just
barrel through
this one life of mine
aware each breath
shortens my time?
Have I paid
my dues
to the
Home-Owners
Association?
Have I submitted
my painfully frank
and moving
personal statement
for the
financial aid
supplication?
I’m supposed to
appear normal
for my son
for my daughter
they need a role model
it says right there
in the initial
Dr. Spock
manual.
I guess
this figure
could be
a coach
or a teacher
but neither
of my children
stuck with piano
possessed chutzpah
to Eagle Scout
create a charity
march a drum line —
Does that seem like a bad sign?
Photo by Fab Lentz on Unsplash
How are we
supposed to know
what matters
with
so many choices?
Wickedly smart
breathlessly beautiful —
does that count?
Is there a special skills
section
on the application
I don’t know about?
Only one image
for me
aches clear:
they will leave
me
boy first
to fly
like baby
freaking
birds
in clouds
that haven’t
rained yet
bloomed
to sights unseen
to fulfill dreams
to wrestle with
meaningful
moral quandaries
I get it —
destiny
and all
that shit —
yet does this not
seem a bit unfair
with how often
how lovingly
I’ve done their laundry?
Hosted
the princess
and pirate party
other mother’s
envious
my freaking
cleverness
my creative
bounty
activities
planned
meticulous
replete with
buried treasure
lovingly procured
from the goddamn
Oriental Trading Factory?
And a plank
to walk
pink princess dress
made by Nammaw
talk of the party?
Does my girl
remember?
Doubtful
as she was 3
but I do
I remember
exactly
and I know
without question
it was
absolutely necessary.
Photo courtesy of Erin Ryan Burdette’s iPhone.
Or my son’s
SuperHero
celebration
I forced
my husband
to don
a black ski-mask
and T-shirt
white iron on letters
spelling “Bad Guy.”
He stole a present
ran through the yard
while my son
and 5-year-old pals
chased and tackled
him to the ground
to take back
rightful bounty.
You were The Hulk, honey.
Do you remember?
Probably not.
Maybe
in that way
pictures
can convince
us we remember
the event
when the image
is what we recall —
the idea of an epic
party thrown
when we were small
in honor
of our birth.
Couldn’t you stay
just a little
close to home
for fuck’s sake?
Isn’t there
some rewarding
gap year
you’d like to take?
Photo by Y R on Unsplash
Instead of
galloping off
into some ripe
collegiate sunset
Northeast
bluster cold
wind chill
sticker price
enough
to freeze
your soul
or California
mountains, beaches
pretty! —
or deceptively fecund
fault lines shaky
California could
fall off
the edge of
planet Earth
any second.
Kidding —
of course!
Go to college
find a passion! —
that’s what
they’re always
saying —
just
not in theater
learn and listen
from your
overly-carefree
caffeinated
mother:
a necessary
paycheck
strips the joy
out of Art
you will quickly
discover.
Photo by Christian Bowen on Unsplash
Either way
I live next door
forever
because you don’t
know it now
but you’ll need me.
I’ll make
chicken and dumplings
when no one asked
I’m that freaking
accommodating
so I can
raise my
grandchildren.
The truth stings
sometimes
when I
look back
little things
that make
my stomach
ache like how
tiny your hands were
the way my daughter
mispronounced girl “GEE-rl”
and my son
forever exploring
his vibrant
environment
occasionally
terror
clutching his face
frantic to find me
crawl, run
on chubby legs
to hug or wet kiss
before he was off again.
(Let the record
show: I do not
expect him
anymore
to do this
at carpool.)
Photo courtesy of Erin Ryan Burdette’s iPhone.
Out of everything
I’ve done
everything else
pales
if I never wrote
another word
to have
these particular
humans as
offspring
infinitely worth
the everything.
So why can’t I
be satisfied
on the days
that I can’t
write a word
read
get it together
at dinner
remember
for the love of God
to serve
a vegetable
play with the dog
make my bed
do, do, do —
Can we
just be
still
for
a
minute?
Can I soak
in this
time
exactly
what you
look like
now
what you
will grow beyond
so fast
and never be
again?
“Stillness is the Key”
the next book
in the series
from Ryan Holiday
I haven’t read yet
but will.
Ryan has
two
little boys
but one day
they’ll be big
and he’ll need
his books
as much as I do.
“When my son wakes up in the morning, and I hear him stirring, I try to stop myself from rushing in and getting him. I want him to learn how to be alone with himself quietly.”-RH
The Writer and Her Children. Courtesy of Erin Ryan Burdette’s iPhone.
Interestingly
or not
this also
applies
to writing.
Sometimes
not near
so often
enough
I imagine
the writer and the mother embracing.
—
This post was previously published on A Parent Is Born.
***
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