Parenthood is funny. The longer I’m a parent the more I realize I don’t know what I’m doing. 

Every now and again I flirt with poetry. This blog has always been more about exploration than anything else. I want to thank my good friend Andre from who really helped me rearrange some incoherent thoughts into this piece. My apologies to any poets out there. 

The Grip of Parenthood 

Is this Parenthood?
My kisses heal sickness.

My hugs block all evil.
Do you see my cape?

There’s no building I can’t bound.

No locomotive I can’t outmuscle.

No bullet I can’t outrun.

With a pep in my step

And a smile on my face.

I feel like I can do it all
My words heal all ills.

My love conquers all.

Other times?

Do you see that letter S on my chest?

Its full of shame and doubt.

That building is too high to climb

And that speeding locomotive

Trampled me down the tracks

With a bullet lodged in my back.
I feel mortal.

I feel frail.

I feel weak.

I think I’m doing it wrong.

I’ve been miscast for this role

A fraud.

A fake.
Is this parenting?

It’s a gentle balance.

And a heinous struggle.

It’s a vicsous mix of courage and humility.

And endless tug of war

With moments of clarity

And glimpses of defeat.
In that struggle,

True strength is found not in victory

But in the simple ability to hold the rope.

Parenting doesn’t require a cape.

Only a firm grip.

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