The Poet Mom

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

Tag: stay at home 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.

Vestige of a Woman

The young woman who loved fearlessly, thought deeply and met life courageously

She now has a family and a virtuous career in homemaking.

She knows she is not the sum of dishes, laundry, chores and mothering.

She is buried but not yet dead.

She implores with every pot and pan washed, every shirt crisply ironed, each runny nose swiped. . .

See ME!  Know ME!  Respect ME!  Love ME!

Let ME free!

But her pleas are transient and evaporate quickly.

She is trapped by choice, restrained by propriety,

Buried by necessity with the loose change beneath the cushions.

But not yet dead.

This poem was written in one of those “moments” we all have.  (At least I hope we all have them.  Please tell me I’m not the only one!)  However, when I shared it with a friend, she reminded me in her very eloquent way that there are always two sides to the coin.  I don’t feel this poem is complete without her addition.

Even when you are in cammoflage,

in your cloak of cook, cleaner, tutor, supporter, enabler

Your powerful essence shines through.


Creator of life, creator of words that move,

Compassionate, smart, competitive

I am so glad to call you my friend.

Fashion Statement

A quick scan of my closet

Reveals the dismal truth.

The stained T’s and cropped yoga pants

Have replaced the haute couture of my youth.

How did this happen?

And why didn’t anyone shout,

“Hey, you, Lady!

Back away from the discount T-shirt rack.”

I have a good idea when I went astray.

It was the day I made the discovery

That the one who loves all things dirty, grimy, and buggy

Meant more to me than any finery.

My garments are comfy and practical.

They reliably stay the course.

And when they finally cave under the pressure,

It’s into the rubbish bin with no remorse.

I take heart knowing the day will come

When I can again look my best

Someday all too soon

When those filthy angels finally flee the nest

Until that day arrives,

I’ll wear my uniform with pride.

For every sticky fingered hug

Makes me feel like a super model inside.


My day starts with a bang and ends with a muted wail.

Every sound in between is of equal scale.

TV voices rattle on at all levels.

Music blares at rock concert decibels.

Doors  slam, phones ring,  batteried gizmos squawk, beep and drone.

Voices cry my name in all manners of tone.

I patiently carry on amid the unrelenting clamor

And try to remain sane until the kids begin to slumber.

When at last all the noises suddenly abate

And my mind has a chance to acclimate,

I realize the insane cacophony

Has become my cherished symphony.