there were good poems brewing but then i lost lost my patience. creativity wanted an outlet but i was in the daily grind of solo parenting. 152 bedtimes alone. more honestly, 5 years. alone. at bedtime, and breakfast, and all the in between. a tired and true story, but officially 152 bedtimes.
it would make any woman unravel but especially me because i’ve done it without realizing the gravity until now. chronically tired but granted a second wind. but it feels useless because I’m angry. and full of good poems but instead there is just this…
152 bedtimes alone, more like 5 years, and now i’m just sad, and tired (still) but mostly angry. “i’m trying really hard to be a good mom,” i say. “you already are,” octave tells me. they don’t understand but they know, and lately they see me, and it brings me to my knees. it makes evertyhing okay. just to be seen. there is a grit in me that only they see, and only in this tired moment does it feel like a gift. for them. the three of us will all have our own memories and we will retell or make up our own stories and experiences but it will be something shared 152something no one can give or take away from us.
and now i see that it’s always really been this way. the three of us. 152 bedtimes alone, but more like 5 years, all in preparation for what my father has always said is “the best that has yet to come.”