If ever I chafe against motherhood,
Days filled with dishes and cleaning,
Potty-training and breaking up fisticuffs
Or soothing simple disagreements;
If ever I grow weary from
Nights interrupted by bad dreams
Or wet diapers or infant hunger,
Or simply years of unselfishness;
Let me remember my baby
Startling awake, wide-eyed in the day
Again, ready to cry that the world
Is what it is and what it is not,
Until he sees me and relaxes
And smiles and laughs and reaches,
And I hug the compact warm body,
Glad again to be called mother.
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