Perhaps motherhood is less about who we are
and more about who we let our children become.
Thanks, Mum, for letting me become me.
Thanks for letting me play in the dirt,
build forts in the woods
and climb trees taller than our house.
Thank you for my brothers–
companions in the world of pretend,
where winter was always coming
and we had to stock our pantry with
meat and potatoes–
pine cones and red chunks of log.
Thanks for giving me my own tiny garden
to grow flowers and cucumbers
and look for fairies in the morning dewdrops.
Thanks for letting me stay up late reading
“The Hobbit” and “Anne of Green Gables,”