Grocery-Store Notebook

I wouldn't understand motherhood. (A part of my upcoming collection: Sycamore Lane Notebook)

Forget the situation with the crayons. 

The stapler is lying precariously in the plush-worn carpet. 

The rock-hard table legs are 

another hazard, especially the one 

with the splinter on the outside, sticking up. You don't quite 

understand the clattering of the rattle on the tiles. 

Its cacophonous rhythms are not what you consider music. 

Neither are the jingly tunes of the exuberant stuffed toys, 

mirrored on the bookshelves and playing

on a loop; plastered-on smiles

like the one you have grown so used to. You don't like

the scribbled portrayals of yourself, frizzy hair and

a figure of sticks and circles, drawn on a rainy Saturday

instead of the park, thank god for the rain because 

the unrelenting mothers will pester you Sunday,

fill your calender up with hen nights and 

twenty percent-off coupons for groceries. 

A woman can only live so long on 

strawberry juice stains and greasy fingers;

and even though 

the juice is spiked with a few drops of vodka 

it still can't take the edge away from the crust of the sandwich 

taken to daycare on a Tuesday. Fingers crossed for 3

the relief that is provided by the arrival of a teenager 

at the doorstep as you signal for freedom. The salary paid 

in a double-digit standard issue twenty dollar bill 

for the girl next door who thinks she loves children 

when all she really wants is a call from 

that boy who lives a few blocks North. 

Ignore the shrieks and wails as you hurry down the street. 

There is no time to hover or think 

about the first kick you felt in your growing belly 

while you were digging through out-of season swimwear at the mall. 

It doesn't matter if you have since exchanged 

your mall-dates for play-dates that always have to happen�"

there is never time to remember your first trip into the city, when you were still young

and overwhelmed by the dazzling lights and glamorous back-street alleys, 

standing out in the cold beside Broadway to catch glimpses of backstage bustle 

and the yearning birth of a dream that shone beneath the stage-light glares. 

While you take warmth in your reality 

instead of the red coat that "symbolized aspiration" you refused to stop wearing 

fresh out of college, your daughter still waits for you at home tonight. 

Take a few more gulps of that cigarette that used to be sweet but 

you realize has now turned bitter,

and like a dog loyal to its child, 

find your way back to that dreadful suburban establishment 

that is her home. Recognize that from now on, it is also yours.

Reviews

[trainwreck]

Being a stay-at-home mom can be crazy, from what I hear. This seems like a much more honest portrayal than most people would actually let on. Good job!

[Heather]

hi Annie, there was so much goodness in this poem, any stay at home mom can relate to this and I am sure if I shared this with the ones I know they would feel you were singing their songs of frustration.

its a bit long, and there are parts that could be moved around to create a more flowing poem. This could be a great prose like eglantine said, or if you shorten it as there are some things that could probably be consolidated together.

Overall I loved the concept of the poem, felt the frustration and longing for a different life at times yet happy with the life of a stay at home mom. Bravo to those strong woman indeed.

[Annie N.]

Thanks! It's so great to hear that this poem drew some empathy—even though I've never had the experience myself.

[eglantine]

ooo wow, this was chalk full of great concret images! The structure isn't doing the poem justice though, I think it'd be great as a prose poem.

[Annie N.]

Thank you! I was a little unsure about this structure too—but I've never written a prose poem before, I'll definitely try it.