Category Archives: motherhood

The Irony of Writing About Motherhood

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You don’t have to look hard to find us, because we have boldly staked claims in our corner of the internet. We are stay-at-home moms who write about the life-changing task of motherhood.

We all have something to say and a sympathetic audience, so why not say it? Mothering can consume us, and it’s such a relief to reach out and connect with others in similar shoes. Ah, what comfort—we are not alone. And if we are able to help someone weather a rough patch or solve a problem with our words, so much the better.

But writing about motherhood contains an internal and inescapable irony. I see it in my own words about campfire memories and wildflower bouquets, when I write about spending time with my family, about seeing my children before they are grown and gone.

How did I write those words? I sat down at the computer and said “just wait, sweetie” and pecked at the keyboard and served hot dogs for supper.

To write about motherhood I must abandon the duties of which I write. I ignore the sticky floor and the stickier kitchen counter so I can pen missives about having proper priorities. I put off cleaning the outgrown clothes out of drawers so I can write about that day the snake crawled under my refrigerator.

This abandonment is not exclusive to writing: Sewing, scrapbooking, and cake decorating can demand equal commitment and time. But writing trips me up the most.

I wrestle with this contradiction, my responsibilities on one hand, the words on the other, and me caught in the middle. Or is it my children caught in the middle?

I hope not. I pray not.

Because that would be the greatest irony: to neglect my children so that I can write about motherhood.

Of Making Memories

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I hunched my shoulders against the breeze and poked a stick into the snapping fire. Its glowing warmth chased the autumn twilight back into the trees. What was I doing out here, sitting by a campfire on a chilly night when disastrous kitchen counters and baskets of unfolded laundry waited for me inside? I should be in the house, getting my work done.

My husband threw a handful of leaves on the flames, and across the fire ring, Jen sputtered and moved out of the smoke. Beside me, Tari munched on the remains of her hot dog.

Our hot dog roast had been impromptu, suggested by the girls and seconded by their father. I had hastily assembled food and picnic supplies while they built a fire, and now here we were, having what could be our last picnic of the season. I didn’t want to pour cold water on their plans—I do enough of that already—but the summery heat of the day had given way to decidedly autumn temperatures. I wasn’t exactly sitting here having fun—or getting my work done.

Jen moved her chair for the umpteenth time, talking non-stop. Tari asked for a napkin around the last of her hot dog. I looked at their fire-lit faces and realized that maybe I wasn’t having fun, but they were. They will remember this night, this meal, above all the other meals in this week. Why? Because of a little inconvenient effort.

Memories are not made of convenience. I stared into the fire, chastened at my thought. How many memories do I miss making with my children because I judge the effort too inconvenient at the time? How many times do I say “No” when I should say “Yes, and I’m coming with you”?

My excuses were many: I am a busy mother. Tomorrow or next week would be a better time. I could love my children in ways other than doing things with them. I was a solitary creature and didn’t pursue group activities, even with those I love.

My face grew hot, but not from the fire.

My husband threw another piece of wood on the fire. “I thought you said you had things to do,” he said, brushing off his hands.

“I do, but the work can wait.” I met his eyes, knowing he would approve. “The memories are being made out here, and I want to be in them.”

Purple Treasure

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You blew in the door

   on a leafy breeze,

      a purple treasure

in your fist.

“Mom, these are for you.

         Put them in water.

I think they’re thirsty.”

You tumbled back outside,

coattail flapping,

boots too large and clomping.

I grabbed

my own coat

to follow in your wake.

     Why toil

 in the confines

       of this

furnished cage?

I could be

outside,

with you,

braving the wind,

         scuffling in the leaves,

            finding gifts of indigo

by the woodland edge.

Time is running out.

   Soon,

there will no longer be

a little girl

   with purple treasure

in her fist.