I’m someone’s mom.
I’m a grocery clerk scanning eggs.
I’m the fast paced mail lady, trying to get my kid off the bus on time.
I’m a built-in alarm clock.
A walking calendar.
A personal escort to the potty.
A sounding bar when their father doesn’t understand them. When they don’t even understand themselves.
I’m the venti-vanilla-latte-drinking blonde at Starbucks getting work done before school pick-ups.
I’m the call they made the first time their heart was broken. The first time they were bullied.
I’m who wiped their butts and the one who knows about what happened in the bathroom that day.
I’m a catalog of embarrassing moments, triumphs, of secrets – a vault.
I never will tell about what happened in the bathroom that day.
I’m who taught them how to use a spoon.
I’m the lady who looks like them and demands they brush their teeth.
I’m someone’s emergency call.
Their first choice.
The one who drops it all for them.
Someone’s tunnel vision.
I’m everywhere; I’m half the women you know. I am guidance and refuge.
I do all these things and more.
I am learning as I go.
And teaching as I am taught.
I am all the things I never even knew I needed for myself. Because I’m someone’s mom.