Mothers Poem by Claudia Copeland

I'm envious of all those polished mothers with their perfectly polished children dressed with matching outfits with coordinated accessories. I envision them following airtight plans etched into planners using consummated manuscript. I, one whose life seems to have gone amiss, observe from a distance in mismatched socks, a stained shirt, and fuzzy hair.
"Always smile…keep it together….Don't dare complain", chanted over and over. Pray until knees become cracked, practice pranayama and asana, and recite affirmations to impede negative talk. Shut out the world to maintain sanity. Authentic moments of self, lead to outpours of raw emotions in dark rooms weeping into pillows alone.
Ignoring phones calls from well-meaning friends that remind you that you are strong without listening to your moments of weakness. Tired of explaining why you can't attend to their needs and request because you can't explain your type of fatigue. They tell you how you're doing a great job of holding it together, but you wonder why they can't see you're falling apart. But you dare not say, and you dare not admit that you can't; failing is something a mother just can't do. Her job is to make music from even the most discordant tones.
And so, I stand and watch the perfect mom standing there confidently in her motherhood; each step in their lives calculated. I mention her in my prayers so that God knows the exact prototype. My ability to describe her comes from the outline in my head that haunts me at night. I look down as she walks by in an attempt to hide my dishevelment and that's when I see them…faint streaks of tear marks running down layers of perfectly blended art.