Single Mother Poem
This single mother poem, and the others that follow, was written just for you...a woman doing her best at the hardest job in the world, in need of comfort and inspiration.
Poetry: Ode to a Single Mother
She's fixer of sinks
and drier of tears
Anxious, yet valiant
allayer of fears.
She works a full day
Commutes home, and then
She works another
full-time job, again.
She's master accountant
And counselor, too
She sets aside worries
to listen to you.
There's laundry and cooking
and cleaning to do.
Homework, then bathtime
A story or two.
She's finder of toys
And righter of wrongs.
She's busy. She's tired.
She's lonely. She's strong.
When the day is done,
The kids safely in bed,
No energy's left
for the thoughts in her head.
She turns them all off
along with the lights.
Crawls under covers -
Gives in to the night.
Before the rise of the sun
She be up and back to it.
There's no other option
No one else to do it.
If you, too, know this woman
(she goes by many names)
Applaud her, she belongs to
no ascribed hall of fame.
But a tacit sisterhood,
Arduous like no other,
Of extraordinary women
Also know as Single Mothers.
Written by Tamara Sue Appelman, Butyoudontlooksick.com, © 2006
This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick
toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Meyer wieners
and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here." when they
keep crying and won't stop.
This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their
hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween
costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see.
And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.
This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers
at football or soccer games Friday night instead of watching from
cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see me?" they could say,
"Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the World," and mean it.
This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in the grocery store
and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet like a tired 2-year
old who wants ice cream before dinner.
This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and
explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted
to but just couldn't. For all the mothers who read "Goodnight, Moon"
twice a night for a year. And then read it again. "Just one more time."
This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their
shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted
for Velcro instead. This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to
cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.
This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little
voice calls " Mom ?" in a crowd, even though they know their own
offspring are at home.
This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomach
aches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got there, only to
get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please
pick them up right away.
This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can't find the
words to reach them. For all the mothers who bite their lips sometimes
until they bleed--when their 14 -year olds dye their hair green.
What makes a good Mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad
hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a
shirt, all at the same time?
Or is it heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or
daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the
very first time?
The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 A.M.
to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?
The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear
news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying? For all the mothers of
the victims of all these school shootings, and the mothers of those who
did the shooting. For the mothers of the Survivors, and the mothers who
sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came
home from school, safely.
This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their
children's graves. This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper
changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go.
For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, Mothers without.
Author Unknown
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