Motherhood
Poetry from the beautiful, exhausting, ordinary magic of raising children—from pregnancy and birth to bedtime, growing up, and everything motherhood asks us to carry.
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all four of them are finally dreaming, and the house,for once,has stopped asking things of me. no cups to fill.no blankets kicked away.no little voices callingmomfrom somewhere down the hall. just silence—soft,strange,almost holy. and me,with a headache bloomingbehind my eyeslike a stormthat waited politelyuntil everyone elsewas safe. I should sleep. I know I should. but…
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I used to thinkhome was a place— four walls,a locked door,laundry folded badlyon the back of the couch,toys multiplying overnightlike some tiny plastic curse. But I know better now. Home is this. A boy with messy hairand a grin too big for his faceholding his baby sisterlike she has always belongedinside the circle of his…
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At three in the morning, two wide-awake babies and one exhausted mother prove that motherhood does not care what the clock says.
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The compass has not changed, but the road home has been bent, leaving a mother to wait while every room still points toward her boys.
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She scrubs, folds, and prepares every room as though order could bargain with the universe for the footsteps she is waiting to hear.
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When sleep would not come, she wrapped two tired daughters into a stroller and carried their exhaustion outside to meet the moon.
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Two babies somehow create enough laundry for a village, leaving one tired mother at the base of a mountain made entirely of tiny clothes.
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The house is a mess because people live here—laundry multiplies, toys migrate, dishes wait, and love takes up space.
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Laundry, made beds, stocked cupboards, and careful little chores become a countdown to the sound of her boys coming home.
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At four in the morning, the babies sleep, the house belongs to silence, and Honey kneads the weight of the night out of a tired lap.
Between Bruises & Blooms 