To trace the roots of a poem today, I look to an exercise on recording obsessions. During a workshop with Katerina Stoykova-Klemer, she encouraged us to explore our obsessions--what roles do we play? What voices play and replay in our minds? This exercise took me immediately to the mother role; specifically, the pressure put on moms to "be" a certain way and how that picture-perfect role truly looks in the messy day-to-day reality of caring for young children. There are books and blogs and articles telling mothers the best way to speak to our children--advice-givers at every turn tell us not to use the word "no," or similar negative language. Instead, speak in positive terms to name the behavior we want to see. Don't overuse praise; instead, talk about the hard work, the time given to a task. The list goes on and on; it is exhausting, and it is impossible to meet these expectations.
The "obsessions" exercise opened the door for me to address this conflict between who I truly am as a mother vs. what I'm expected to me. I began to write down what I said to our young daughters; in particular, those things I immediately felt guilty about saying. I wrote such lines down in my notebook for a week, and then I circled back later to shape the lines into the poem "Stop" which is the first poem in my forthcoming collection Mother May I.
"Stop"
No we’re not playing baby any more
Get up
You can walk
Use big girl words
Sit down or you’re not getting dessert
You have a napkin right there
Why are you wiping your mouth with your sleeve
Why are you doing that
Please let me eat
I need my arm
You’re hanging on it
Stop kicking her
You’re not going to bite your sister
We don’t hit
I don’t know why I plan things for you to do with your friends when you act like this
If you want to hear the song stop talking
Leave her alone
Just close your mouth and be quiet
I’ll tell you when to come out
I’m not ready to see you
We’re going to turn that off in a minute
You have five more minutes
No there are no more minutes it’s time to go
Come on I’m leaving
Just a minute
Get your hands off me
I don’t like the hitting hands
Use your words
No I can’t
You know how to put them on yourself
It makes my back hurt
Because I’m mean
first published in The Collapsar and the anthology Circe's Lament: Anthology of Wild Women Poetry