You Be The Mother

little girl dirt road

In a moment I want to share another poem by Marie Howe, one I think should be required reading for every parent.  It certainly brought back memories of my own little girl back in days that were more precious and fleeting than I ever imagined.

That's her above, striding along a dirt road, a funny and confident little mop-head. We had truly wonderful times together, that little girl and me, but I think there probably was a lot of rushing and fretting too, and I wish I'd slowed down a bit.

And there were days when she would declare that she was "Mommy" and I was the little girl. Sometimes she would assume an officious, big shot demeanor in that role, which I guess from her perspective was a major aspect of me. She was powerful and bossy then, as she clomped around in my shoes or jingled my car keys or referred to Monte as, well...Monte.

But she could also be considerate– "Careful," she would say, turning around to help me find my footing on the goat trail–and liberal with treats, and genuinely nurturing as she read me books and cuddled me on the day bed by the window.

Anyway, this was my brief season of great significance, and it was touching to be admired and impersonated, but the ending of Howe's poem is an unsettling reminder for parents to be conscious of what, exactly, they are modeling and teaching.

The poem is called "Hurry":

We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store

and the gas station and the green market and

Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,

as she runs along two or three steps behind me

her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.

Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?

To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?

Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,

Honey I'm sorry I keep saying Hurry—

you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.

And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking

back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says,

hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.