I am the keeper of lunch money and errant mittens,
the one who hails down the Tooth Fairy
and unbreaks broken zippers.
I am the queen of double knots, of “you may nots”
kissing bruised-up spots
and never sleeping.
I am annoying a teenager, her eyes rolling, sighing
I am swallowing my wounded pride, but on the inside
I am wishing she were five again.
I am five years from forty
but a bicycle ride away from childhood.
I am somebody’s mom, another one’s mama, somebody’s sworn enemy.
I am daydreaming about sex on the sidelines of the soccer game.
I am sleeping with my five year old more often than my husband.
I wear stretch marks like a vixen and sweatpants like a high schooler.
I say things like “why aren’t you wearing pants?” and “you can not ride the cat”.
I think things like ‘is anyone even listening?’ and ‘why am I not wearing pants?’
I am bad at my job, surviving a thankless job, not working a ‘real job’.
I am so tired, so happy, so freaking frustrated, so irrelevant, so important.
I am somebody’s mom, but I’m also still somebody. I am more than the sum of all my parts.
There is a great divide between what I am
and what I was going to be.
I was going to change the world, I ended up changing diapers.
And the truth is, really?
I don’t think
I would change