They Grow On Trees

A better mother.

Poetry, ParentingJenica Halula1 Comment

From a digital "scrap of paper" (the notes app on my phone), 2014.


Mother than I.


Everyone, other than me,

is a better mother than me

(than I?)

My own mother uses two forks to tear the roast into portions

Then plates it up on a serving tray.

“Here.” Is what I’d say,

dishing it straight from pot to plate

"This won’t kill you,"

After popping out the meat thermometer

Which turned out to be unnecessary

As the charred edges could have shown me

It’s well done.

But it another way, it’s not very well done at all.


Everyone is a better mother than me

(than I?)

Even my husband gently teaches him how

To know the front of his shirt from the back

“Why aren’t you dressed already?”

Is what I’d say


But still he is so sad if I miss a bedtime

I have to keep trying

If I can’t learn to swim in this

Endless sea of grace

Then God help me.

God, help me.


Before the poem were instructions I jotted down for Wes's clavicle surgery, (no water after midnight, button shirt, bring laptop and sweater) and after it is a to-do list (check downloaded cards, black button up orange necklace, gray pantsuit).