I acted.

I acted.
In tiny, not quite black box theaters, for audiences of 5.
I cried, danced and slaved for passion and laughter and no money.
I found a cozy house with a small nursery and a big mortgage.
I quit acting.

I ran.
For miles, to lose the wedding dress weight, to feel strong.
I saved the world from breast cancer, diabetes and poverty, one 5K at a time.
I imagined I would run right through my pregnancy and come out skinny
on the other side.
The baby disappeared.
I quit running.

I showered.
Every morning, with rich Aveda smells and time for shaving.
I wore my hair blown dry, down my back.
And scrutinized scrunchies for their value.
Today, I gave a bath with a Ducky washcloth
and hope I will have time to wash my hair before the end of the week.

Most nights, my monkey bean and I practice walking up and down our street
talking about the puppies and flowers, looking for lady bugs.
I follow her, tugging my tank over the baby fat.
Regretfully, my motivated younger-self would not recognize this person,
this happiness.

I do not say happiness because this is my happily-ever-after poem
I don’t even believe that mommy myth.
I say this because, for this fleeting moment I have clarity.
The sense that everything has its time.
I have all the time I need to be the mom and the woman I dream of being.

 

 

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