Sunday, June 19th

They keep hitting me.
Not on purpose,
not even consciously.
Which is part of the problem.
I think.
I don't know.

It's as if they don't know
that my body exists
as its own entity
with its own integrity
(and nerve endings).
We are still one,
according to them,
no boundaries, no separation of the
here and there.

So walk on my toes,
go ahead.
Clock me in the mouth
during a particularly awkward dismount
from the monkey bars
with me spotting as requested.
And don't even flinch --
don't register the moment,
because nothing, apparently, has happened.
Except that my mouth hurts.

And I can't seem to educate them:
Hello! Here is my body,
and yes, it feels pain,
Lucy! That hurt.
Please don't do it again.
She is mute in the face of my stern reproach,
not even offering an easy "Okay"
because (again, I think) she's trying to puzzle out
the what --
What exactly did I do?

So I keep absorbing the blows,
allowing myself to be honest in the moment
but the accumulation of careless physical contact
has my blood boiling a bit.
Just another thing they didn't tell me
about the job of being a mom.
(Along with being sick all the time, them and me.)
I am not a doormat, though the scenario
might bring one to mind.
The motherly role I more relate to is Queen Mother.
(Or queen bee?)
A bit regal but not too standoffish,
well-respected but not feared,
an important, powerful and very seen woman.

Would you ever hit a queen?