From Chicken Soup for the Mother of Preschooler's Soul

Sorting It Out

Some sort of silent trade takes place between mothers and children.

Yuko Tsushima

It’s a day of doing laundry,

A normal daily chore.

Washing, folding, put-a-way

And picking up the floor.

My toddler’s running all about,

A ribbon in her hair,

Wearing the cutest little dress

With fashion and with flair.

I venture to the dryer

To switch another batch.

My mouth drops open wide

When I open up the hatch.

The one bra I have left to wear

That’s nearly a decade old

Looks like it’s been rolled around

In some yucky, greenish mold.

Somehow it got sorted in

With all my darks and blues

And now is spotted pink and green

Like smelly bowling shoes.

I just want to sit and sob

When my toddler saunters in

Dressed in too-pricey clothing

And an I-know-I’m-cute grin.

And I realize, right then and there,

How mothering’s meant to be.

So I’ll wear my ugly, tie-dyed bra

’Cause it’s no longer just about me.

Angie Barr

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