This is… going to be messy.
I wanted to write a poem about mothering and all I got out were these two lines:
Inside flutter, I have sewn
Someone whom I’ve always known
And then I stopped. Because Callum’s toy box lid closed down hard onto his forehead for the 56th time, so I had to put down the laptop to lose my shit; I dumped every piece of primary coloured plastic into a Rubbermaid container and tossed the mother fucker (toy box, not Callum) out the back patio door. Callum loves his new “toy box” because he can now hoist the thing up and over to dump the contents all over the floor.
Kids just know how to deal. In fact, I believe the younger we are the better we are at processing pain and in fact I swear that with each passing year we become more and more handicapped in our ability to express frustration. Because more hurt equals more walls and more walls equals a higher fucking chance that they’re going to fall on our heads.
Wide open spaces save lives. They save lives.
Into the great wide open, grown
Returning to me, not my own