Mom mom

Sometimes the name "mom" is my least favorite word in the world. When it is being called out in anger during a fight between siblings. When it is being whined. When it is repeated over and over -- often even after I have said, "what?" more than once. When it is repeated for the 17 millionth time in a particular day. I have decided that I know why Heavenly Father has asked us not to take His name in vain. Could you even imagine what it feels like to have your name cried out in anger, whined, and repeated . . . multiplied by 5 billion? I have asked my children not to take my name in vain, but in this they aren't any more obedient than Earth's general population. Sometimes the name "mom" represents the constant pull I feel of needy little people overwhelming me. Their cries distract me, and peck mercilessly at my mind's every thought.

Sometimes the name "mom" is my very favorite word in the world. When it accompanies a declaration of love. When it prefaces a humble request for help. The first time each of my six children has truely learned it. Any time it is voiced with admiriation and respect. I think I know why Heavenly Father has asked us to come to Him in prayer. Can you feel him there, returning your love, ready to help, eager for us to learn more of Him? I am so thankful to each of my children for the blessed moments of motherhood that I find so fulfilling.

I have had thoughts along these lines many times throughout my 15 years of motherhood. I got thinking about it again recently because my Emily often calls me "mom mom." It is baby talk, but it fills me with warmth, and I began to wonder why I like that name so much. I have been called by many appellations of motherhood: mom, mommy, mamma, mommylu, mother. Yet somehow, mom mom is the one I find the sweetest. I feel she is endowing me with all the blessings and love normally accorded to two moms. That she can't fit all that I mean to her in just one name. It fills me with resolve to overcome the trials that motherhood brings. The repetition is a prayer of thanks for who I am to her, of what I can and will do for her, of the love she knows I return so fully to my sweet sweet EmilyEmily.

Things I Want to Write About:

After the hurricane

Mom mom

Sunday Clothes

Summer of the Chickens

Work on my Hawaii poems

Lupus

I had a million ideas one day, and didn't get any of them down. Well, that's what this list is for. Hope some of them come back to me . . .

Airing My Dirty Laundry

Recently I decided to ask my sweet sister in law to look at my stuff here on this blog, and see if she had any feedback for me. But before doing so, I read through all of it. I guess that was the first time I had done that (read all the posts in one sitting). And I had to absolutely laugh at myself because of all the laundry references and metaphors!! I decided that one day I'll have to publish a compilation of poetry and essays that all have something to do with laundry. I can give it the same title that I gave this post!! :) I guess that is one of the things that I feel the most overwhelmed by is trying to keep up with the laundry for 8 people. Or maybe it's just harder to make glib little references to needles and diabetes test-kits, another very overwhelming aspect of my life.

Memories

my memories are torn and crumpled
they are the little washed paper pieces
found in the dryer lint screen
and I don't know whether to
carefully unfold them
piece them back together
pray the faded writing
though smeared and barely
legible will still provide some clues
or scoop them up with all the
rest of the bluegray lint
and toss them in the little plastic
garbage can next to the washing machine

Darkest thoughts

Remember that mom who drowned her babies,
to save them from the world?
It worked, right?
Her babies went straight to heaven.
But she sold her soul to the devil in the process.
What deals will
I have to make with the devil when
my cries go unanswered . . .
Father in Heaven, please, please,
please, can't you just help the baby sleep through the night?
I'm so very tired . . .
I'm the one facedown in the bathtub.
Drowning in my own inability.
But I always raise my head,
gasping for air,
but living.
For one more day living.
Even in my darkest thoughts,
I want to be with my babies
for today
for always
So they are safe
I am safe
No contacts signed in their blood or mine
As I stagger,
gasping
through one more day.

Empty

Wet sloppy toddler kisses
caught between loads of laundry
that squealed laughter
overheard as I make dinner
playdates and parkdays
homework help
driving
Always driving kids
somewhere
pre-nap snuggles
storytimes snuck in too rarely
datenight
diapers
hugs from a son taller than his mom
days so full so
full
I've weaned the baby
But still I feel
sucked
so
dry.

Strange

I lay down next to the stranger in my bed.
The quiet comfortable stranger
breathing slowly.
He was awake when I went in to brush my teeth.

I wake to an empty bed.
To a busy life full of needy children
alternately hugging and pushing.
He won't be home until it is dark again.

Mid-day, I put the baby in her crib.
She's angry, but tired;
her tears will soon subside.
He doesn't take my call when I need to hear his voice.

It wasn't always this way.
I almost remember knowing for sure
he loved me.
The stranger I've bound myself to forever.