“Unless you’re writing something on the page, you’re not writing.”
-Margaret Atwood
-
Sometimes we say
What will we do?
We have an hour before bedtime
Unsure how to fill the minutes
For our children who need so much
Then I hold my oldest child
And realize he no longer fits in my lap
His gangly legs an awkward bundle
As I try to scrunch him down
Into the baby he was once
To be a parent
Is to do battle with time
We understand that it will exhaust us
Tantrums, sickness, “no you can’t do that”, tickles, chasing, stories, meal times, decisions, discipline
It’s work that you feel deep in your bones
Yet to also know
It is like trying to hold sand
And watch it fall uncontrollably through your fingertips.
As these babies grow and grow, farther into themselves and away from needing us.
Time, please show us grace.
-
I’m thirsty for whimsy
Something to snap me out of this haze
How can I find it
Right where I am
I need to be present, grounded
But my heart longs to lift away
Dreaming of a different landscape
A spontaneous adventure
It’s all talk
All planning
The reality is that it’s unrealistic
So instead I write
And tuck away the longing
Forcing myself to find magic
Here in front of me.
-
Watching her
I see that she never
Learned to ask
For what she wants.
Just say it, dammit.
Grab this life
and say what it is
That your heart is longing for.
I will not pass this down
To my baby
Just learning how to tell me
That she’s mad
I have to remember
To tell her, that it’s ok.
It’s ok to feel.
Say what it is, baby- that your heart is longing for.
Kacie B. Sharpe 