So You Remember

Mama, why do you take so many pictures of me?

..So you remember what you look like.

Mama, I know what I look like.

..So that you remember how you felt.

Mama, I'm not going to forget how I feel!

Oh, but baby you might.

Someday you may look in the mirror and doubt what you see.

Someday you may feel a little less brave, a little less beautiful, a little scared, a little less.

Someday.

Someday you may watch the way someone else walks, the way they laugh, the way they think, the way their hair falls differently than yours and you will pause.

You will wonder if maybe what you see is better. You will wonder if the wild tangle of your curls should be smoothed and your hips narrowed. You will wonder if you are too loud, too sensitive, too much. Or perhaps not enough? Not enough to be seen, not enough to be valued. Not enough.

You will wonder if I was wrong. You will wonder if you aren't beautiful and brave after all. In fact you may convince yourself of it. And you will grow quiet.

And then, my love, I will be there to remind you.

I will remind you that you were born free and capable. That all the beauty and bravery and strength you will ever need was already there, tucked inside this tiny body perched on the edge of a dock worn with memories, wrapped in that tiny, navy blue tank top.

I will remind you that you were always beautiful.

If you forget.

It's The Noise

It's the noise.

Mother's Day again and I'm struggling to find the right words to use to tell you what I want to tell you. I'm struggling to explain what separates my time with you from a time before you. Trying to find a way to make you understand what these days as your mother are like.

It's the noise.

 The steady thump of your feet down the hall, more reliable than the sun in the morning. The sound of your sweet breath in my ear right next to my bed before I've even opened my eyes.

"Mama?"

It's The Noise.

Curious George in the background as I wash my face and the sounds of you beginning to wake in the early hours. That grating cartoon voice steady and constant. Even when our mornings aren't as steady.
Mornings can begin with tickles and laughs and still dissolve into tears before Annoying George has had a chance to learn his morning lesson.

The scrape of the spoon on the sides of the container as I pray there is still enough left in there for you to have your usual 'chunk of banilla yogurt' for breakfast even though I misjudged the grocery list.. again.. this week.

The giggles and the whining as you two fight upstairs over the covers and cold feet and who gets to pick the next cartoon.

It's the noise.


Your littles voices sing to me from the back seat. Arguments over who is taller, smarter, bigger.

Was I a star in the sky before I was born, Mama?

Why did she get to be a star before I did! I wanted to be the first star!

.....Are we late?

It's the noise.

The crying and the screaming and the laughter and the tears and the never ending noise.

The arguing and the sound of cheap toy guitars and your 'concerts'. The giggles and the whispers and the shrieks and the indignant cries of what is fair and what is not.


Someday it will stop. Someday it will be quiet. You won't breathe your tiny, hot breath next to my ear at dawn and you won't care how much 'banilla' yogurt is in my fridge.


Someday I'll close my eyes in the quiet

And I'll remember the noise.  

I Have No Time

I have no time to write it down for you.

Because you are strong and willful and never take no for an answer. You wear me out with the same questions over and over. I have no time to write because my time is spent instead anticipating the direction of your debate skills, weighing when to encourage the will to fight and when to encourage the need for empathy.

I have no time to write it down for you.

Because the laundry never ends. Because your rooms and your growing bodies are draped in outrageous, wildly creative outfit changes that are bathed in patterns and color. Color and pattern your mother has long since abandoned when the desire for approval eclipsed the freedom of creativity. You ask me each time you change and drop yet another pile of tiny cotton clothing on the floor if the leggings and headbands and Hello Kitty tank tops are what a rock star would wear. Each time I remind you that a rock star simply wears what a rock star wears. A million Hello Kitty tank tops could never improve the perfect way your tiny hips sway when the music moves you.

I have no time to write it down for you.

Because my hands never stop moving long enough to commit the words to paper. They are busy lifting bodies to my hips. Bodies that have now grown so much that they are almost too big to rest on these hips. Hands that are filled with backpacks and lunch bags and grocery bags and every other kind of bag. Bags can add so much weight to a life. But your bags are still filled with dreams and treasures and promise.

I have no time to write it down for you.

Because even when your eyes have closed and you have drifted off, your bodies still slump against mine heavy in sleep. And when I rise, sliding in my familiar way out from your tangled limbs, my thoughts will immediately turn once more to your never ending questions and the inadequacy of my answers. My thoughts will drift over the mountains of laundry that I can never seem to finish and the bags that need to be emptied and the work that needs to be done. I will send a million tiny promises up to the universe about how tomorrow I will answer the questions better and finish the laundry. I will raise your growing bodies up into my arms and against my hips and let your hot breath linger a little longer against me cheek before hoisting you up and over my shoulder to carry you off to sleep in your own little beds.

I have no time to write it down for you.

Where does the time go?