Years ago, I read a poem that captured for me one of the most difficult aspects of parenting: the disappointment I felt when I parented in a way I felt was "less." Less than perfect, less than what I wanted, less than the children deserved. I loved this poem, which I think I read in Brain, Child, but somehow managed to lose it before I could save it somewhere. And I have tried to find it for years without an author or title or back issues of Brain, Child.
And this morning it was on the FB newsfeed of author and Zen priest Karen Maezen Miller. I am so grateful for finding the poem again. And it still captures the emotions of parenting, for me, even though the cribs are long gone.
Nursery, 11 p.m.
by Robyn Sarah
Asleep, the two of you,
daughter and son, in separate cribs,
what does it matter to you
that I stand watching you now,
I, the mother who did not smile all day,
who yelled, Go away, get out, leave me alone
when the soup-pot tipped over on the stove,
the mother who burned the muffins
and hustled bedtime, tight-lipped.
You are far away,
beyond reach of whispered
amends. Yet your calm
breathing seems to forgive,
unwinding
into the air to mesh
like lace, knitting together
the holes in the dark.
It makes of this dark
one whole covering
to shawl around me.
How warm it is, I think,
how much softer
than my deserving.
