When It's Time to Pause.

Rosie the Riviter as a single mom — Image by WILPF

It has been an extremely tiring week. I had to work for 12 straight, full days so I am exhausted. And, as all parents know, work does not really stop when you leave the office. There are tons still to do at home, albeit more enjoyable, with the family. I hope and pray that I’ve been patient and understanding these past few days and that I have been an agreeable mom. I hope that I have done better catching up at home than I have with all my other tasks.

I bumped into these two poems online and thought they were inspirational. Well, they made me feel a bit better. Here the are:

Ode to a Single Mom by Tamara Sue Appleman

She’s fixer of sinks and drier of tears; Anxious, yet valiant allayer of fears.
She works a full day Commutes home, and then she works another full-time job, again.
She’s master accountant. And counselor, too. She sets aside worries to listen to you.
There’s laundry and cooking and cleaning to do. Homework, then bathtime A story or two.
She’s finder of toys. And righter of wrongs. She’s busy. She’s tired. She’s lonely. She’s strong.
When the day is done, The kids safely in bed, No energy’s left for the thoughts in her head.
She turns them all off along with the lights. Crawls under covers – Gives in to the night.
Before the rise of the sun. She be up and back to it. There’s no other option. No one else to do it.
If you, too, know this woman (she goes by many names), Applaud her, she belongs to no ascribed hall of fame.
But a tacit sisterhood, Arduous like no other, Of extraordinary women. Also know as Single Mothers.

And another one by an anonymous author:

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Meyer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, “It’s OK honey, Mommy’s here.” when they keep crying and won’t stop.
This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON’T.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they’ll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.
This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at football or soccer games Friday night instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, “Did you see me?” they could say, “Of course, I wouldn’t have missed it for the World,” and mean it.
This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet like a tired 2-year old who wants ice cream before dinner.
This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn’t. For all the mothers who read “Goodnight, Moon” twice a night for a year. And then read it again. “Just one more time.”
This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead. This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.
This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls ” Mom ?” in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home.
This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomach aches, assuring them they’d be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up right away.
This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can’t find the words to reach them. For all the mothers who bite their lips sometimes until they bleed–when their 14 -year olds dye their hair green.
What makes a good Mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?
Or is it heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?
The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?
The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying? For all the mothers of the victims of all these school shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting. For the mothers of the Survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.
This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children’s graves. This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go.
For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, Mothers without.