Sometimes I see her in the way I push my hair behind my ears, leaning down to kiss the forehead of my littles.
She sneaks up on me as my hands magically have a healing touch to a wound on my daughter’s knee.
Her words come out of my mouth after a long day of repeating myself, the heavy sighs that leave my lips are a sign of her survival.
My belly is growing just as hers did so many times, ready or not for another mouth to feed.
The wrinkles in my hands starting to form the same lines as hers, as I scrub the mud out of a favorite stuffed animal, loved too much in the imaginary playhouse in the woods.
The way my words form as I narrate a Princess tale once more as I turn the lights out. I am her.
Darkness falls and I let the tears fall from utter exhaustion of being her , over and over again. I am her.
I am her as I referee through the sibling fights while battling my own wars inside myself.
How my own needs seem so quiet in the chaos of motherhood, I hear her voice. Reassuring me I will live.
I am her, she is me.
She is my Mother.
The Witty Uterus 