it’s 6:15 am and my son has asked for a birthday candle six hundred and fifteen times. apparently my magic number was six hundred and fourteen, at which, if asked one more time i would lose my mind. he blows out a pretend candle. his way of asking one more time. i lost it.
i went and got the whole pack of birthday candles and set him back on his bed. not kindly. not gently. my husband stands by, probably scared. i don’t look at him so i can’t be sure. instead i throw my favorite blanket over my head and say “i am so tired of my entire days and nights spent kissing his ass.” which is quite dramatic, but then again i was just asked the same question six hundred times, so clearly we are a dramatic bunch.
i leave before 6:30 and before the next world war begins inside our home. hell hath no fiery like a mother who has hit her breaking point. i drive until i find a spot littered with wildflowers. they remind me that beautiful things grow even when no one is watching. they remind me that mother earth still mothers, even when no one is mothering her.
a rooster crows and i applaud him. and as i’m clapping, i realize someone is also probably cursing the same rooster. maybe it was the six hundredth and fifteenth time it crowed and six hundred and fourteen was their breaking point. understandable.
here’s what i’m getting at. sometimes we are applauding motherhood, in awe of all it has taught us. in awe of all the shit it has taken and tilled into fertile soil where wildflowers will grow. sometimes we are cursing motherhood, in awe of all the shit — the loss: of self, of child, of our own mothers. the relentlessness: of need, of attention, of death. sometimes we are breaking before 6:30 in the morning. sometimes we are popping our anti-depressants with leftover water in a sippy cup and bolting out of our home before we strike down our most beloved people.
sometimes we are applauding the rooster. and sometimes we are cursing it.
it’s mother’s day, did i mention that? and whether you applaud this day or curse it, you are not alone. whether you are covered in wildflowers or shit (most likely both), you are not alone. there is room for all of us, all of you.
and here beside these wildflowers, listening to the rooster crow, there is room for all of me, too.