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Speaking of Mother's


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Speaking of Mother?s

(or simply a dream)

Jason R.

For the most part it?s a thankless job

A job without vacations

No pay increase

No time off for good behavior

It doesn?t even include health insurance

And we all know

With the amount of torture

Kids put they?re parents through

Health insurance

Would sure come in handy at times

It?s long nights worrying about

Situations you can never control

Fighting against time itself

In a never-ending battle to the grave

It?s conversations about possible futures

And the ever-present what-if scenarios

It?s sweat, blood, and loads of dirty diapers

And that?s just until puberty hits

It?s embarrassment at being seen in public

It?s being shut out

When all you really desire is to be let in

It?s having to let something go

That you?ve held onto tighter than life itself

It?s realizing that you really never had control

It?s sadness

It?s heartbreak

It?s tears

And it?s forever

It?s about the joy you feel

When a child takes that first step

It?s about hiding baby teeth underneath pillows

It?s about looking in late at night

Watching the life you?ve created sleeping

It?s about forgetting what kinds of hell

That child put you through that day

It?s about seeing the angel underneath the dirt

It?s about empty vessels

Day by day being filled up

With the tools and knowledge

To face the struggles ahead

It?s about fighting time itself

For just one minute with those you love

It?s conversations about possible futures

And the right steps to take in them

It?s a million what-if scenarios

As you watch that child grow and learn

It?s joy, laughter, and loads of dirty diapers

And that?s just until puberty hits

It?s watching that young adult

Face choices and making the right decision

It?s satisfaction at realizing

That not only did you do something right

You did it better than anyone else in the world

It?s realizing that you never did have any control

Over anything

And that?s okay

It?s happiness

It?s togetherness

It?s heartwarming

It?s laughter

And it?s forever

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The sentiment is great, and I'm intending to show it to my wife tonight, but there's something lacking to me. I'm not sure what it is, though -- maybe that joy isn't coming through as strongly as I'd like.

It is still a good poem. :icon1:

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Thanks Graeme.

I've always had trouble writing about my relationship with my parents. Disfunction is

probably the best way to describe it. This piece is what I believe a mother should be. But I don't know,

I can only go by my own mother. Maybe that's why the "joy" is missing.

Looking over it again, I think I should change the title. It really doesn't fit the piece. Thanks again.

Jason

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Looking over it again, I think I should change the title. It really doesn't fit the piece.

Well, you should definitely take out the apostrophe.

:icon1:

TR

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Whether or not the apostrophe should go depends on what the poem is about.

If it about mothers (plural), then yes, it should go. However, if it is talking about a mother, then it should stay. The apostrophe is possessive... but what it is possessive about is left unstated. What part of the poem fits the title? The poem is about the job of being a mother, but the title allows the reader to pick what part of that job they want to apply the title to.

I suspect it's supposed to be Mothers, but considering it as Mother's made me think....

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Hey TR, I actually thought it was funny. I am well known for butchering the English language as well as forgetting the rules. I am not an editor nor will I ever pretend to claim such a title.

But then Graeme and Dude brought up good points as well. Which might be why some of the "joy" was missing as Graeme pointed out earlier. My own sense of my mother is not a joyful one but looked at in the context of "mother's lot" then it seems to be a better piece. Maybe I should leave the title alone.

Reading this piece again, I wrote this piece almost clinically. Detached with zero emotion. Though it could have been worse, I could have written in anger like most of

my pieces.

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