The Soccer Mom Who Wasn’t

I drive a minivan, silver, ski rack atop,

Two kids in seats, another ready to pop,

From game to practice to lessons to gym.

Off to the mall to buy the latest whim.

Things looked right – just so.

Fleecy jackets, a brand name you surely know,

Ugly boots and skinny jeans,

Dad at home counting his beans.

But, as the title suggests, things didn’t fit

For the mother who presided over it,

At night I tossed and turned,

Every thought burned.

Conformity and consumption as a lifestyle,

Just wasn’t good after a while.

Really, I should have been content.

Maybe the problem?  Being pregnant.

This baby was the last, three was enough,

After this I’d get out of the fluff,

I’d go to the Y,

Start a book club and ask “Why?”

Why does the author think this or that?

Then perhaps my mind would lie flat.

The baby came, a year went by,

There was hardly time to ponder why.

This ideal mom fell into bed each night

Just praying the babe would sleep tight,

There was laundry to fold,

Noses to wipe, hands to hold,

I scarcely had to time to think,

Why? Good?  drowned in the sink.

Or so I thought,

But like hair, it got caught.

The scum built up,

Enough to fill a cup

Now Who?  What? Where?

Joined Why? Good? There?

2 thoughts on “The Soccer Mom Who Wasn’t

  1. Hi, this is Robert Messore, Hubbard Hall,
    This is a wonderful poem, the descriptions of the inner struggle resonates perfectly

    Your whole site is great, did you develop it?

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