Behind every mother, there is despair and strength.
Behind every mother, there are tears of joy and pride.
Behind every mother, trash bins wait to be emptied, mountains of dirty laundry to be washed, and meals cooked.
It is a dirty, thankless job being a yes mother.
Twenty-four hours is not enough time to cleanse, renew, and release the dirty business of mothering.
To properly moisturize and ready oneself for the day.
I am a motherless daughter with time to give away.
Lean on me, I don’t care if I have to get my manicured hands dirty.
I will give you some of my abundant hours.
I will take out the trash, and do the menial tasks to free up part of your day.
To breathe in responsibility.
The dark hours can wait.
Tomorrow will come, and she starts all over again.
The yes mothers, the matriarchs, the collectors of trash and menders of bloody knees.
The seamstresses of broken hearts.
The yes mothers live lives of faith and purpose, with little reward.
Being a mother is not the prettiest thing about her.
Being a yes mother, being a matriarch is the prettiest thing about her even when it’s hard.
A mother’s ability to forever reach towards the sun, in spite of forgotten dreams and tragic fate.
She does not dwell on mistakes in her house and tosses regret in the trash every day.
One single, plastic bag problem at a time.
Just the one, day after monotonous day.
Sorrow may visit her home, but it cannot stay.
She will not have it.
Shadow love says we’re all different, but a yes mother’s love says we’re all the same.
Matriarchs, even on the bad days.
“A collection of poems and essays celebrating all the glorious, gorgeous, empowered sisters of my soul.
The survivors, rebels, outcasts, lightning rods, and quiet heroines.
For the tough as nails warrior women, I have adored, aspired, and admired.
You have made me feel worthy of the sweet, soft miracle it is to be born a girl, in these fast and loud, masculine modern times.” – Jacqueline Cioffa