Mother Earth and Other Poems
Photo Courtesy | Leslie Yeary
BY LESLIE YEARY
Mother Earth
Haven’t we always
known that our bodies are not
our own? Haven’t we
offered our roomy,
supple selves as everything
beyond the human
form: warm nurseries
for nesting helpless beings;
next, trampoline
and a swing — look ma!
Weeeee! Arms stretched long, haven’t we
always known their growth
a marvel, and our bodies
their own earth for which to home?
Mother Runner
It’s a mystery how my former body — my tight stomach, my thunder thighs — used to run eight miles one afternoon and then four fast laps the next morning. I’d laugh my way through an intramural basketball game with my college roommates and a bunch of dudes as if my invincibility was a way of life. A calling.
To clarify, I get it. I had the great fortune of easing into my athletic body quite naturally with a kind but constant push from my dad. Four years old? Or was it three? First soccer, then by third grade I was hitting the court. My height served me well for that center position, yet my long legs and introversion called me to the pavement. I was well-rounded to be sure. A runner, an athlete. Invincible.
Then one day — it was the sunny Saturday morning of August 5th to be exact — I had a C-Section. My well-rounded belly and my still-strong abs were marveled at by the surgeon. Yet, my inevitable weakness was starting to make itself known.
Mamas, do you recall your first postpartum run? Mine took place in the dead of winter. I exchanged the jogging stroller (mind you, I had only used it for walking thus far) for my four-legged furry running buddy. Was she ever glad to hear the words, “Wanna go for a jog?”
I bundled up, and we ventured out.
We made it exactly one mile, and each four hundred meters I nearly stopped. You see, there had been this very strange invisible brick wall my body had erected out of my C-Section scar. I felt as though I was trapped behind a waist high vertical structure, and I could not figure out how to push through it, how to knock it down. It hurt and it stung and it drained me physically and mentally.
My body leaned forward protecting that space. I tried to push my weight over the solid barrier but my efforts were heavy and filled with the pain of failure. Forward motion, heavy leg up and heavy leg back down with the thundering echoes of you can’t.
Belle, my black lab, and I took the rest of the year off. The entire year. We went back to slow walks during nap time. The subtle bumpy roll over the pavement lulled my son to sleep.
I watched my sister train for a marathon. I watched my single friends go downtown, find a club, dance the night away. I listened to stories of mother runners, women athletes making a name for all of us women. I listened to the cheering crowd, the applause — always so wonderfully loud.
And I sat in silence save for the bubbly babble and sticky cries of my growing son. I held the weight of the world in my arms. Eight pounds, then thirty and another on the way, my whole and only worlds.
***
When my boys had grown to four and two, and my body felt much stronger, I trained in a walk/slow-jog sort of fashion for a half marathon. It was hard. Mentally, extremely difficult. I am not sure if I had phantom pains, or if my body still wasn’t ready, but I finished the 13.1 miles and made that my last big run for a very long time.
***
I have found that I love walking. And walking is a perfectly good form of exercise, thank you very much.
I have found a comfortable goodness in coming back inside with muscles only mildly strained, no more wobbly legs or throbbing numbness across the scar on my lower mid-section. My belly, a soft pillow for two rambunctious boys and their dad.
I am changing, and my habits are changing.
I am finding goodness in doing my own thing. I am learning to ignore the voices in my head and on my screen who keep telling me to do more, to look at the standard these other mother runners are setting and to match it.
Please don’t misunderstand me, I follow some incredible mother runners. Moms who are running marathons, triathlons, ultras. These women astound me. Their success I applaud whole-heartedly. But for this former athlete, I am learning how to find accomplishment in taking care of my family as I very gently, and with a slower pace, take care of me.
Maybe one day I’ll run a marathon, but that day is not in this year. And that is perfectly okay.
Mothers,
haven’t we always
known how to run the whole world?
with grit, and mostly grace.
LESLIE YEARY is a writer, boy mom, and preschool teacher from Cincinnati, Ohio. A lover of the great outdoors, she draws inspiration from the many adventures she has with her two young sons. In her poetry and prose, Leslie explores the joy that can be found in simple mothering and in taking life gently one day at a time. Leslie is published in Motherscope’s Issue 4: Generations, The Mum Poem Press Anthology, Songs of Love and Strength, and she has self-published her first collaborative poetry collection Dear Sister.