
It will not be easy.
From the beginning
you will feel as if the earth has spun
off its axis
and yet
you still have to pack a lunch.
It will not be easy.
You will hold on even when the universe comes undone,
when laundry climbs higher than Mount Olympus
and you become the Sisyphus of dishes
and the Hermes of carpool.
It will not be easy.
You will be okay because
of little hands in clay and dandelions blown
into the wind with big, big wishes attached.
You will be okay because of laughter from the back seat
on a long car ride
and crayon drawings of aliens and cats
on the refrigerator,
messy baths
and sparklers in the backyard,
the made up songs about dog farts
and jelly beans.
It will not be easy
on days when sleep is like an old friend who
moved away leaving no forwarding address
but you will be okay.
Because the music will come on as you watch
a little person
who you made
tap dancing on your freshly mopped floors
and you will find yourself turning
the music up and putting down the mop.
Because something about you has changed.
You will never be the same.
It will not be easy.
At night, after you’ve read the stories
brushed the teeth and answered a thousand questions
about gravity, why cat’s breath smells like tuna and
how do butterflies know where to fly,
why children can’t stay up all night
and what happens when we die.
You will tuck her in and breathe a tired sigh,
one that every mother has known
from the very beginning of time.
It is a sigh that says
It will not be easy
but you
will be okay.