To K on Mother's Day

If being a good


means flipping

the color of

a screaming room

in an instant —

by turning a wall

of hopeless tears

into a

bright chorus

of giggles

with just one

look —

if being a good


means intuiting

through some primal


that your child

(or husband)

is about to cause

irreparable harm

to themselves

(or others)

even while attending to

something else

from another room

or zipcode.

If being a good


means earning a

PhD in online


digging your way through

the dark web

of other mama stories

like it’s 1972

and you work for the

Washington Post,

just to confirm

that our pediatrician

is indeed

deserving of

her own degree.

If being a good


means full bellies

clean tushies

fresh air

good hair

pressed clothes

instant drop-what-you’re-doing-




thoughtfulness and kindness

and heads full

of important questions

and wonder

about this crazy


world we're blithely throwing

them into.

If being a good


means doing

all of this

while ferociously

defending our

precious foursome,

being a devoted wife

a loyal friend

and an overall fucking


human being —

well then

my love,

it just so happens

we have a day for you.

but I’m afraid

it’s just only one —

one arbitrary Sunday in May

among the thousands

of others

I get to

sneak secret looks at you

from across this

sunny room,

watching you tirelessly juggle

the tired world,

always leaving it

a little better,

always leaving me

in awe.