I hope that my hours at the computer,
fiddling with fonts, shapes, colors,
won't somehow scar her for life.
I hope that the breaks we take to dance,
to snack on popcorn
and watch Rapunzel swing on her hair,
I hope that these moments
aren't lost on her.
She stands in the center of the living room,
her curls bouncing straight toward the sky,
tossing back her head,
"Ask what I'm singing about, mom."
"What are you singing about?"
She asks to spin
"like a beautiful dancer"
and I hold one finger,
while she twirls on the hardwood.
She asks to color,
the glitter pens are pulled from the
beat-up green bin,
and she draws people.
And if anyone is crying,
it's only because they didn't get to sing,
or eat their cookie.
"You're so happy, Mom."
while drawing a jagged line around my head.
Raising a child is hard,
When was the last time,
you sang a song about cracking open eggs,
sweeping the kitchen,
or getting the mail?
She peers out the window,
do you smell it?"
"Smell what, Maddie?"
"The wind. It's right here Mom. Come."