The Poet Mom

A blog about the joys and frustrations of being a mom.


I think one of the pitfalls of being a stay-at-home mom is the tendency to


I know, I know . . . working mothers obsess, too.

But they have less time to do the real, hard-core obsessing us homers can manage.

Usually, I obsess over my child.

Is he eating healthy enough?  Maybe I should start growing all our own vegetables.

Do I spoil him?  Am I not spoiling him enough?

Is that cough turning into the flu?

What about that book report that’s due?

Well, ladies and gents, I think I’ve outdone myself this time.

My latest obsession, which I can only now begin to acknowledge is


You know, the kind that grows on the earth.

The kind we painstakingly mow (or pay someone to mow) each week.

We edge it and fertilize it and pull each and every weed from it.

Well, my grass rebelled this past summer.

In fact, it completely died on me.

I was dismayed and felt utterly betrayed.

How could something I so lovingly cared for desert me that way?

(Does this hint at how I will deal with the college years?)

So began the obsession with finding the perfect grass that will never ever treat me that way again.

You know, the grass that’s weed-free because it’s so dense and lush.

The grass that needs no fertilizer so we can have healthy lakes and rivers.

The grass that loves sun and shade equally.

I met with several lawn “experts”.

I told everyone about my quest, often.

I surfed the web instead of sleeping and eating.

I ignored the cooking, cleaning and child rearing.

In short, I obsessed like I have never obsessed before.

The end result is a beautiful lawn.

The same lawn I could have had weeks earlier with far less stress.

A lawn that will in all likelihood get cinch bugs next year.

But I grow and I learn, even in spite of myself.

I learn I cannot research and obsess my life into perfection.

And who needs perfection anyway?  How boring is that?

So, I’ll tolerate (dare I say, appreciate?) some dead grass and uneaten vegetables.


My husband is having a boys’ weekend

I’ve never had a girls’ weekend.

I probably should.

It’s only fair.

But when I think of leaving, even for a night, I experience a vague sense of panic.

Is that guilt?



No.  None of those.

The excuses I make for not leaving emanate from contentment.

I am happy in my life, in my skin.

This is where I belong and I feel no need to escape.

Don’t misunderstand.

Life is not all rainbows and unicorns.

There is pain and frustration and doubt.

Usually all three, daily.

However, I enjoy a peaceful familiarity

That I can nestle in amongst the love of my family

Or turn to the compassionate embrace of friends

Or pen a modest poem.

Gone are the youthfully awkward days of my 20’s

And the driven, control-freakish 30’s.

40 ushered in a new, calmer era

Where I can love a simple life, warts and all.

The Home Party

An invitation to a (blank) party arrives.

I’m desperate for company.

So I accept.

Conversation swirls around kids, husbands and housework.

I am bribed with food.

The (blank) is shiny and new.

I am compelled.

I buy.

I leave with a full heart and an empty wallet.

A few weeks later,

I send out my own invitations for a (blank) party.

They come because they are lonely.

I serve food.

We chat.

They buy.

We are full.

Mother Oak

I am a mighty oak.

My roots ground me.

My branches reach for the heavens.

They lift my children so they may float away on the breeze.

My rough, craggy bark encases wisdom and strength.

I am a mother.

This poem was inspired by my neighbor’s oak tree (pictured above).  It must be very old and I feel lucky to have it as my view.  I just hope I look as good when I’m that old.