R
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Find out what it means to me.
Actually, I’m still finding out, too.
I’ve made friends with bad habits like quitting early and cutting myself short.
I hang around with the idea of starvation, letting my stomach’s gurgling protests fall on ears closed tight, eyes fixed on an image that isn’t my body.
I let my to do lists build and build until they crash over me like a wave and wash me out to sea.
I get overwhelmed so easily these days,
and overstimulation is a constant companion.
I bought special ear plugs so that my daughter’s temper tantrums wouldn’t send me over the edge.
When I put them in, they replace her often jarring noise with tiny whispers that I am a bad mother.
I forget to feed my dog, and I can’t bring myself to put away my laundry.
Baskets of clean and dirty clothes sit in my broom as stalwart reminders that I fail.
I fail a lot.
But sometimes
I finish a poem, and I believe it’s good enough to share.
I let my body tell me what it needs, and I indulge it.
My pile of tasks gets a little smaller, and I let myself feel competent.
Confident.
When my daughter screams, I scream with her, and we crumble into laughter.
She hugs me and my whole being floats.
I’m a good mom.
And I feed the dog, and conquer the laundry.
So if I’m still learning that my body is less like a temple and more like a celebration,
and if I’m still figuring out that imperfect isn’t a slur,
and if I’ve almost realized that good enough really IS,
then I think I’ve also learned that respect is a gift I give myself.