Motherhood

 Motherhood

I caught your vomit in my hands.

Now I catch other things you spew.

These days, mostly words. 

Your fists haven’t pounded me in a long while.

Your words hurt more than your fists ever did.

“You’re dumb.”

“I hate you.”

“This is your fault.”

I once taught you to 

get to the toilet, 

stay on the tile, 

avoid the carpet and bed at all costs.

Now I try to teach you to 

breathe deeply, 

find hobbies you love, 

surround yourself with good people, 

say “no” when it is too much.

(Unless it is chores. 

Then you don’t have a choice, 

but I am willing to negotiate. 

Perhaps you prefer sweeping to dishwashing 

or lawn care to vacuuming?)

Honey, I already risked my life for you.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t survive for you. 

You learned to not vomit on me.

I think you’ll learn to not word vomit either.

I love you.

I’m your mother.