Every Mother’s Day,
breakfasts in bed
handmade cards with handprints and hearts
flowers are bought and given
restaurants booked and meals eaten
ang pows from the elders
a day alone (a year)
to take a breather

“What do you want this year?”
the husband asks, with tired trepidation
“And don’t say nothing.”

Of course, then, the answer is,
“Whatever. I don’t care.”

This year, it’s not nothing.
I have an answer.

The answer is, I want to love being a mother
I want to wake up
and want to spend the day
cooking and cleaning
worrying and scolding
chauffeuring and doing laundry
breaking up fights
wiping bottoms and blowing noses

I want to want to talk in a silly voice
get excited about another piece of paper
with globs of green and purple
some on the carpet
and glue on the couch

I want to want to read stories
ten stories every night
and one more
and another
and one last one, pleaaase

I want to love to love
and love and love
my growing children
before I blink

and find them grown

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