– mugs, dishtowels, socks– featuring women in capes, in masks, flying through the air like wonder. Mom is super, they insist. Thanks but honestly? I wanna burn it all like a bra.
When I birthed my baby drug-free, four weeks early, I wasn't super. I was shaken. It happened too fast. I wasn't a hero, I was lost. I missed myself so much. Where had I gone? A ghostly sight. Blurry from over the shoulder, holding up a palm, asking remember
I wasn't super, I was needy. I needed space for what was unplanned. Time and space for when shit's just not planned. The way I needed sleep that didn't come
in the beginning, but then again and again, lots of years later, like seven years later, when I thought I wasn't post-partum and then realized damn, when will I not be, in some way,
You should know I'm not super, and I don't wanna be. I'll tell you what I want: I wanna be regular. I wanna be regular because I am. And I want help. I want hands teeming out of my ears
and your sight in the middle of the night.
I'm tired and not in the mood. Just like a person
like a person is tired and not in the mood.
We're not super, we're regular. We wear no cape to cloak our mistakes. We need room to cool our weapons and hours to shift the logs. Don't buy us shit, relieve us. See us like you see yourself, when you'd rather not see yourself:
running from as much as you run to
like a person.
Like people do.
You should know I'm not super and that I lose things, like care and kindness. And when I find them again they're not yours to print on a card, or to mark on a pillowcase
stitched by another mother.
You should know I'm not super, I'm no hero. I lost that cape you gave me, that mask, a hundred or so moons ago. And the footprints I make
you can bury a fantasy in there.