Mothers are created by a symbol on a stick,
The first fuzzy black and white image on a
Wavering screen.
They nurture through secret thoughts,
Through ice cream and banana peppers,
Through music pumped through cheap
Headphones stretched across a bulging belly.
“Congratulations, mom,” they’re told
When a squalling something is handed to them,
As if that’s all it takes to deserve the name.
As if it’s that easy to be Mom.
It is not easy.
Children are their own people,
Which is both the best and the
Worst part of being a mother,
Of being Mom.
They don’t know,
Until they are wise,
That mother is where it begins,
But Mom is where
Joy lives.