The Mothers

I’m tired of all of the books

about young mothers who are unhappy,

my friend Sissy said.

They were all going to be designers

or writers or astronauts.

But the women in these books

are sorrowful brunettes

who sit wistfully on park benches.

Sissy is a brunette mother,

but she is not sorrowful.

She’s sturdy and steady and

full of good advice.

Her baby reaches out a pudgy hand at me,

but Sissy gently tucks a Cheerio into his palm.

His hand moves away, occupied by

oat rings and playtime.

Not everyone needs to be a parent, she says.

We need astronauts and farmers and counselors, too.