Off Duty Mom

Thoughts from an exhausted mom who is NEVER really "off duty"

Archive for the tag “poetry”

The Road About To Be Taken

There is no real way to know the path you ought to take. “Two roads” may “diverge in a yellow wood” and you might notice that they are similarly untrodden, leaving no clear indication of which to take. You may *want* to take the one “less traveled by” but first of all, WHY? And, second of all, how do you know which it is if neither path is “trodden black” with footprints and markings?

I’m an English nerd and do loves me some Robert Frost and stuff. But, seriously, the question really does weigh on my mind: if I am at a crossroads in life and I look to my options, but obviously have no way of knowing where these options may lead, how am I ever supposed to know what the “right” thing to do is? How does ANYONE EVER know what the “right” thing to do is, for, like anything, ever?

I am about to turn 45 and my life is one giant crossroads right now. I’m dissatisfied at work, but feel too old to start over. My kids are school-aged, but don’t need me all of the time anymore. I feel my mortality as I crunch the numbers and realized I’ve likely lived more years than I have yet to live. I know I have neglected my health, both mental and physical, for ages. So, what now? What path do I go down? What paths are even available to me?

Many thanks to Unsplash for really cool photos that are just perfect, like this one.

I hope to explore this in the coming days and weeks in the hopes that first (and really most importantly because I know me and I don’t know you) I figure my damn life out, but also second, so that perhaps my journey might speak to someone else’s out there. I encourage you to reach out with advice, thoughts, experiences, and/or reactions you might have and hope you’ll pass this all along to anyone you know who might be experiencing a similar dilemma.

Let’s trek boldly into the Midlife Crisis now and see where this woody path leads.

My Clouds

An Open Babbling to Sandra Cisneros and Other People, Too.

 

Before you were a bean, you were angel’s breath and wonderment.  You were the sky above a field of crocuses with dew and soft breezes.  You were a seed the color of rain.  There was soft light and a bird and swaddling clothes.

In the jungle the sounds are purity.  There are droplets of hibiscus.  The air smells of God.  And you were a whisper of a strand of hair drowsing along on the wind made of prayers.  You were the air made of purple.

And, before you were liquid and sunshine and freedom and energy.  Peace that drinks heavily from the chalice of royal diamonds.  The air between fronds on a feather.  The spaces between the light streaming through the cracked corners of the stained glass window.  The sweetness of honeydew.  A necklace made of love.

And, in a day, a peach blossom emerged and was illuminated by years of paper and ice.  Loops connecting forever.  Dancing with the delicacy of pencil erasers tapping on a frosted cake.

And it has come to this

It is possible to be lost in a familiar place

To be both empty and full.

Sometimes it just happens that way.

And there might be a moment that passes by on a cloud

With a whisper and a breath like honeysuckle in August.

It might be possible to realize that it is all sort of a joke

That isn’t really funny

When you’re the only one left in your neighborhood not

Riding a bike to Whole Foods, toting reusable cloth bags.

And they don’t make bikes that come equipped with sidecars

For your munchkins (of which there seem like there are so many that you might as well sell your house and live in a shoe).

And, it is even harder being cool enough to have mojitos after work with the gang

When you have to leave a paying job for a thankless one from which you will never retire.

But, you were never really cool, anyway, and there are very small people in your life who remind you of that every chance they get.

frazzledYou sway from tired to wired depending on whether coffee or Xanax were easier for you to reach.

You hear a bump in the night and are more certain that it will soon be followed with the sounds of someone stuck upside-down in a trash can, inches away from a crib

Than you are that it is someone in the rumpus room trying to steal your big screen.

‘Cause you can’t afford a big screen, anyway.  You’re saving for Disney.

And it has come to this.

So it goes.

There was a time when you’d be lost in Vonnegut at midnight.

And before that you’d have been lost in the bottom of a filthy mug

In a place you’ve since forgotten, but you still remember that it was too sketchy to risk sitting on a chair or, you know, touching anything.

But, now you seem to have forgotten what midnight looks like,

Except, of course, when it comes into your world because of an emergency

And the connector of those circumstances and these

Is someone else’s vomit on your feet.

So it goes.

You’ve tried and tried to hide and cry alone in a bathroom for Just. One. Goddamn. Minute.  PLEASE.

But there’s never not a knock at the door.

So it goes.

I believe I can see the future
Cause I repeat the same routine
I think I used to have a purpose
But then again
That might have been a dream
I think I used to have a voice
Now I never make a sound
I just do what I’ve been told

So it goes.

 

 

Hooray for Mother’s Day!

Off Duty Mom is proud to feature a special “Hooray for Mother’s Day” special publication!

************************************

GUEST POST BY:

Meredith Ethington

My hands are literally cracking and bleeding. My husband said to me innocently when I was complaining, “Can you just try washing them less everyday?” I scoffed, “No! I wash them when I wipe a butt, and before eating, or fixing a meal, and after going to the bathroom. Which of those should I skip?”

I was thinking about how my hands look like they belong to a 90 year old woman even though I am just a young, 35 year old mama. And, I thought of all the beautiful mother’s day poems out there about a mother’s hands. They are beautiful aren’t they? But, my hands? Not so much. Do these poems really get down and share the nitty gritty that every mother experiences everyday? Not really.

So, I crafted a short little poem of my own, which is ironic since I pretty much hated every poem I had to read during my high school and college years. But, this one came to me pretty quickly.

Busy, Dirty Hands (A Mother’s Day Tribute)

I’m thankful for my mother’s hands, which keep us kids at bay,

From destroying everything she loves, each and every day.

It seems that when I need some help, she says, “Do it yourself!”

So, then I climb up  very high and reach up on a shelf.

Her hands know how to clean up each and every mess I make,

When the shelf falls down, and I move on, to wreak havoc in another place.

Her hands know how to feed the baby, while making dinner too.

They send a text, and help with homework, while the house feels like a zoo.

Those hands wipe our bums 10 times a day, and rarely she complains,

Except, of course, when poop floats in the tub, and she’s almost gone insane.

Her hands are patient when we draw on the couch with a bright red pen,

She uses them to cover her mouth when she wants to remain quite zen.

Her hands catch every single thing that comes out of my mouth,

chewed food and vomit, are just two that no longer gross her out.

Her hands clean up the crusty things that come out of my nose,

when I wipe them on the wall, she says, “That isn’t where it goes!”

Her hands know how to clean and wipe, and clean and wipe again,

They do the same thing over and over, to clean up our pig pen.

Her hands show me so many things, like how much she must love me.

After all those hands have one dirty job, taking care of little ol’ me.

-Written by crazy toddlers everywhere

Meredith is a native Texan, recovering perfectionist, and mama to 3 kids living in Utah. She has been blogging for over 5 years, but just recently decided to make her blog public and get real about motherhood. Her tag line is “far from perfect, but blogging about it anyway”. Because that is exactly what she wants to do. Her goal is to be honest and not just blog all the happy, pretty moments. You can find her over at Faking Picture Perfect.

What We Deserve

hand

 

 

 

 

 

My mother once told me that my first words were
“Me do.”
I said it, she claims, emphatically.
I am sure I meant it, too.

I had been raised with an ideal:
An idea that I’d be beholden to no one.

When a friend of mom’s asked me one time
In mid ’85 whether I’d marry rich one day and live high and fine
Driving Hubby’s Lamborghini
Wearing thousand-dollar bikinis

I looked her straight in the eye and said:
“When I grow up, I will make my own money and buy my own car.”

But, no one seems to say that anymore.

And no one seems to encourage it to be said.

And, when the Lambos don’t come easily, we hear that “it’s just not FAIR.”
As if fairness were determined by equality.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t” I hear from the mouths of babes.
Never is there a drive to work to find a way
But instead if you don’t have a pencil
That must mean you don’t have to do your homework today.

Or it is my job to give you one.

And, if I don’t, then it is my fault that you have failed.

And, if your computer broke this morning,
Then clearly you should not be held responsible
For turning in a paper that was assigned two weeks ago.

And it is the doctor’s job to keep you healthy,
Your mom’s job to keep you clean,
Your dentist’s job to make sure your teeth don’t rot,
And the Rev’s job to make you believe.

Nothing is up to you, anymore.

Put your hands out.
God and the Fates will provide.

Because you deserve it.

Teachers are told to adjust student workloads
For each according to his need.
No child should struggle, they say
As if struggling didn’t make us all free
Or didn’t build character.
Maybe, instead the struggle is the KEY.

For if every man, woman and child embraced the struggle now
We’d all learn just a little bit more about how
We can build ourselves into mountains
For it was pressure that forged the Earth’s peaks.

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: