I tend to this guilt
That gnaws at my heels
No matter the shoes I wear
Or the role I play that day

I carry this guilt
Like a baby
Too heavy for its sling

When I choose to spend my days
In the service of children 
Who aren’t you

And I hear myself tell other parents
How quality time with their children 
Is both a prescription and remedy–
A preventative pill
An elixir for the unwell
A nourishing green drink
Soothing aloe for the burnt relationship 

The ache runs deep
Thinking of you
Thinking of the other children

Thinking of the adults, too
Who never got to be children
In the ways that matter, anyway

The children you’ll never know
Or hear about
But whose stories helped raise you

Where does my gentleness come from?
You don’t know
That parents can yell
Or hit
Or worse

You don’t know that family group hugs 
And barefoot kitchen dances
On Tuesday nights
Are not the stories
Of the children I know 

I turn these tears for others
Into an ocean of love for you
Tasting the salty water
That can either drown me
Or float me gently
In its brine 

I have done well– 
This balancing act of mother 
And mission

And in the same breath—
What have I done? 

All mothers are working mothers
But some work keeps those mothers away
Even if they’d rather
Stay

All mothers are working mothers
But some carry callings
In two different rooms

Have I missed the most important parts?
Is there an ointment
For these tired and torn heels?

I hope you’ll understand someday
Will you understand? 

Will I?