“Every poem tells a story, and every poem is in some way about love,” says Rennie McQuilkin, author, teacher, publisher and founder of the prestigious Sunken Garden Poetry Festival at the Hill-Stead Museum in Farmington, Connecticut.

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I hate lifting weights. Between my weak arms, the intimidating steroid pit at my gym, and you know the part where I actually have to lift the weights it just sends me over the edge. Luckily, my gym has a barbels class that I attend religiously (like lapsed-Catholic religiously) with my partner in crime - I mean my accountability partner, Sara.

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Hello Moms!  My name is Tirralan Watkins.  I’m a working mother of two young boys; I’m married to a very caring husband, and I’m passionate about sharing my nurturing gifts through words.  I’m a little anxious, a little reserved, but equally elated, to embark upon this journey with all of you.  So, without further delay, here goes…

Recently, I attended a conference in Orlando, FL.(I know…the hardships of work are often unbearable.) In the midst of the preparation and conference itself, we had a half-day reprieve and could do what we wished with that time. My boss and colleagues commenced with holding an impromptu meeting at the pool and water-slide, but I opted to stay in my hotel room-doing my taxes.

For today, please call me Jennifer.

For many years, this has been an inside joke with my siblings, but you are all part of my extended family so I feel comfortable sharing it with you.

As a child, I dreaded situations that required introductions-first day of a new school year, meeting a new kid on the bus, speaking with adults, etc… You might have thought that I had an innate tendency towards bashfulness or an aversion to people, and you would have been wrong.

We’ve had houseguests for three weeks,  I just worked about a sixty hour week  - culminating in a one hour appointment that
lasted four hours Friday afternoon (ugh) which means I finally got home around
7:30 when I had my heart set on taking off early and hanging with my kids and
our friends (double ugh).   <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

So basically I am done. 
Stick a fork in me.

Oddly enough on Saturday all the moons aligned and it was
pretty much a free day with nothing to do. 
No soccer, no gymnastics, no early morning trips to the gym scheduled,
no nothing. 

So I tried sleeping in. 
Sounds easy enough, right?  Easy
except for the fact that I was wide awake at 5am wedged between my husband, my
oldest son, who had crawled into bed with me and my 121 pound (at last count) two
year old puppy who had decided he wanted to get in on the cuddle fest and was
sprawled on top of the lower half of my body. 
Okay so now I am wide awake and sweating.

I Army roll out of the bed, grab a book, and curl up on the
living room couch.  Much better.   And as I am just about to nod off my youngest
comes walking by and says “Momma what are you doing?”  With the same amount of disbelief as if he
happened upon me doing a headstand. 
Although I’m now beginning to believe that a headstand would be less odd
and an all-around easier feat for me to accomplish than sleeping in.

As I mutter to my son (keeping my eyes closed the whole
time) something about momma needing just a little bit more sleep.  He decides that I am either talking crazy or trying
to trick him so he proceeds to prattle on as if I am fully wake.  I tried keeping my eyes shut for a few more
moments but really the motherly guilt was just too much to take.  So I open my eyes and try to explain that I
am going to sleep a little longer and then I will play Legos, read a book, make
him breakfast, etc.  Mind you, it’s not
yet 6am.  He walks away baffled.  And just as I start to drift off again he
comes walking back over and starts talking again.  Clearly he’s decided that I couldn’t possibly
truly want to sleep past 6am so even though all evidence points to the contrary
he’s decided to treat me as if I am actually awake.  I shut my eyes tighter resolved to make this
sleeping in thing work if it kills me.

Finally I decide to get up as I’ve never actually been able
to get back to sleep  - mostly because my
younger son has spent the last hour and a half randomly coming into the living
room to give me reports on what he is doing 
- as if I am fully awake and alert. 
To which I grunt in response.

I then spend the rest of the day being “lazy.”  And by that I mean I only drag one child with
me on the three hours’ worth of errands I run at six different shops – the last
being Super Walmart on a Saturday.  God
help me.  Here’s the saddest thing – I actually
did feel like I had it pretty easy since I didn’t have to break up on single
fight between the squirrels.

So here’s the thing. 
I’m thinking I need to resign myself to the fact that as a working
mother I’ll never be able to be truly lazy. 
And that’s sad because I vaguely remember in my twenties that I could be
lazy and it felt pretty damned good.  Or
maybe I just have to delay that indulgence for another twelve years – until my
youngest is off to college.   Either way
it ain’t happening anytime soon.  As my
friend Dara once said “relaxing makes me too uptight.”  Indeed.

I hoped and wished this day would never come. But it did. And it brought with it another phase of parenting. It’s the phase where one of my kids is no longer naïve. It’s the phase where their childhood innocence is a thing of the past. It’s the phase just before the sex talk phase.

I wonder why strangers feel compelled to try to help us young mothers when our child is “showing out” (Translation: throwing tantrums, having fits) in public places like grocery and department stores. As if our child diverting every single shopper’s attention away from their tasks at hand isn’t embarrassing enough; here comes more attention from a total stranger. This unassuming stranger is usually in the person of an older woman whose experience raising her own children makes her believe she knows and can raise yours in a 47 second interchange.