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
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
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).