Poetry and Pottery Barn

I'm sitting in the parking lot waiting for Pottery Barn Kids to open so I can pick up Wilson's bedding. I've dropped C off in carpool, driven through Starbucks, and felt I should break up my stereotypical SAHM morning with a little poetry on my phone. 

I have never read this writer, but I found this and loved it. 

"I was satisfied with haiku until I met you,
jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry, 5-7-5,
but now I want a Russian novel,
a 50-page description of you sleeping,
another 75 of what you think staring out
a window.

 "

"Changing Genres" by Dean Young

While I'm pretty sure it's in reference to a lover, I couldn't help but equate it to motherhood, perhaps because we tend to mold things to our own surroundings. 

As I dropped off Catherine this morning, and watched her until she disappeared through the school doors, I drove away with this overwhelming sense of pride and fear and excitement all wrapped into one. I am watching her turn into a little girl before my eyes and it is beautifully terrifying. 

I read articles on how to nurture her into a strong woman. I mix in dump trucks and dinosaurs with babies and bottles to ensure she isn't sucked into a pink stereotype before the age of three. I teach her both the proper way to kick a soccer ball and to bake cookies. When we role play, I tell her she can be anything she wants to be. Sometimes she is a princess, sometimes a cowboy. 

I want her to be comfortable in her own skin, to know she is smart, to know she is kind, to know she is remarkable, but to know enough to be humble about it all. 

I want her to know I am amazed with her every second of every day. I want to write a Russian novel about the curls of her hair, the pursing of her lips, the inflection in her tiny voice as she tells me she loves me, arms outstretched, and says, "give me hug."

I want to spend my days soaking up every bit of her brilliance and my nights recording it all to memory, locking it away so that I may never forget this beautiful, terrifying, mystifying stage of childhood.

But alas, I can't possibly remember it all. I will simply soak in all that I can and hope the Russian novel in my head will stay intact, memories dog-eared for quick reference, for days when I am too tired or overwhelmed to recall the beauty of it all.