More than once I judged friends who are parents
for being, to the best of my knowledge, willfully lame.
Zombie drones bandaged in sweat shirts and sweat pants, but no apparent sweat.
Lethargy, apathy, anomie–insert parents here–save for
the busy pursuit of comforts like
infinite TV, real estate, a four door sport sedan,
vacations, lots of groceries, and…sweats,
with haircuts crowning resignation or imitation,
with purchased asymmetry and poofy bang formations.
But, the teeter totter now has tipped, and
all my judgments dissolve into the thick brine of first-pain experience
Addition of one to my family added vantage by which I see
in the pessimistic checked out zombie stares of parents
a triumph
against odds waiting to crumble anyone who lets up for an instant.
Abrupt detour to every selfish moment:
booby trapped gauntlet of scheduling,
puzzle of a home that doesn’t stay–
no peace in a house of ever scattered pieces
as your children–desperate for knowledge and experience
dismantle and reallocate every (micro and macro) crumb, particle,
groveling hands to know and be
the something their DNA tells them to expand into
without concern for the ones who got them here,
gave them this, and may or may not get
up enough energy to teach higher hierarchical needs
beyond survival. In the crows feet
of parents’ unkept faces
I see a strength that could break at the point of impact
between the overstretched now and whatever comes next,
but won’t,
because it can’t, because the kids are depending on you,
and the powdered backbone you feed them when you’re out of food.
I see people
who lay it all down, all day
to get few to no thanks or hours of sleep
after the kids doze/before the kids wake.
It’s not sustainable, but has to be,
has always been, the only way we’ve gotten here,
rising on the sore backs of those who bore us in to the now.
It’s no wonder I judged my friends who were parents;
no one’s parent ever got enough sleep
or time or space to articulate what it’s like for them.
No one will ever believe me either
as I can’t seem to wrap my tired arms around much of anything
but the magnetic, gravitational light
radiating from the eyes of my child.