Motherhood is all rhythm and rhythm.

Rhythm and rhythm and rhythm.

Then stop.

The pattern of mornings repeating before you,

Repeating, repeating, repeating again.

Escher-print living, unfolding before you;

Its stairways of promise, coming back to the start:

To kids with full bellies, with hair filled with sand.  

To kids who need baths and stories for bed.

The rhythm and rhythm and rhythm and rhythm.

The sense time forgot you. The la-di-da-da-ness.

Until, full stop.

You look at your babies and realize they’re not.

You can’t help but marvel at what you’ve created, these beings stretched out like your mornings once were.

They’re so full of questions, opinions, and laughter, they’re so full of life and emotions.

Just – full.

They got lost in the rhythm, the rhythm the rhythm.  

They got lost, all these changes, these changes so clear.

How could you miss it? Look! Just at Christmas, they still had that chubby-faced pinchableness.

But what can you do, but get back in the rhythm? And vow to remember, remember this time.

Because look! It all changes, it changes so quickly. You have to remember, remember this time.

And then you forget to, get lost in the rhythm.

You’re back to these mornings

These mornings that stretch,

That stretch out before you,

Like putty-filled eggs.

How can it be that there’s anything else?

But rhythm, togetherness, rhythm and time.

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