Today I wrote a poem,
And I was a mom...all at the same time.
I decided between this word and that,
Changing my mind, and changing it again.
Then responded to pleas for help with a long-overdue school project,
And watched a video of a baseball field he dreams of playing on.
I considered line breaks, punctuation and flow,
Questioning whether I actually know how to write a poem.
Listening to him whistle as he searched for photos on the computer,
I wondered if the beginning might make more sense at the end.
He called my phone from his, one in each hand,
Mesmerized by the feedback and echo of his voice.
I tried out some titles.
On the off-chance it was ever finished, I would need to call it something.
He tested each and every ring tone (on both phones)
And presented me with his recommendations.
I did not say, "Honey, can you please keep it down? I'm trying to write."
Because I was not trying to write...somehow, I was writing.
Amazing, the amount of chaos one pre-teen boy can generate.
Amazing, too, the insistence of words determined to find their way through it.
When the work-in-progress needed me to leave it alone, to let it rest,
He tempered my tendency to push and over-think.
And when I was in danger of spirited-boy-induced sensory overload,
The words called to me, enticing me back to the page.
Each in their own way interrupting, distracting,
Keeping me tethered...to everything that matters.
From 4 years ago (almost)....