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Pink Feathers

Spring Break

My children have been fighting for 240 minutes. Yes, I counted. 240 or 14 thousand 400 seconds of whining and fussing about absolutely nothing. Nothing is wrong. They have food and clean clothes, a house dry from the rain and spring storms. 14 thousand 400 seconds of stressing me out.

Not long ago, the sounds of distress the blister of quarrel spilled over to my feet’s edge and I would mediate over their protests a habit I had to quit in order to initiate growth. That’s right. You don’t need me. Figure it out yourselves. I have become my father.

I try to calm myself with trite reminders about missing this disappearing phase. I cannot imagine it’s true. Like the lie of a quiet newborn between feedings making my womb ache, but I am sure I remember the pain and sleepless nights.

I miss the quiet and it takes all this is in me to stick to my principles and make them figure it out on their own. I know I had four for a reason. They need to practice these skills on someone but I cannot convince them it isn’t me. Go back to your bedrooms full of toys and videos and leave some peace, for god’s sake.

Leave some peace for your mother. Be kind or be angry. Be rowdy or quiet. Just stop fighting.


Quiet. Quiet my lovelies. Soft and quiet and lazy. Give yourselves a break. Or at the very least go out side.


poet and mom of 4

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