Making sense

Anne Lamott, on writing ...

"We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason why they write so little. But we do. We have so much we want to say and figure out.”

Monday, October 11, 2010

Isn't this the truth?

Although I've been hyper-focused on babies for the last coupla years, I have given up on the Me-Now-Me-Now-Grandmother dream; I will be patient and wait for my children to reproduce. I will not harass them; I will not say Hurry Up, Please, I Am Getting Old. I will quit thinking of decorating a nursery in my empty-nest home; too many people told me that idea was weird. After some introspection, I realized they were right.

"A Little Tooth" by Thomas Lux

Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It's all

over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,

your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.

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