A Woman with Intention

Propped on the bedside, nylon stockings stretched under A-line skirt, I stroke his soft cheek. Waiting for him to stir, I cherish a rare quiet moment.

I coax him from under the warm covers with soft kisses and a slow back scratch.

I intend: To bring him into a new day gently and kindly. To tell him innumerous times before his feet hit the cold wood floor that mommy loves him. To give him the sense that he owns this dark morning as dreams pass into memories and hopes hinge only on determination.

My intentions of caressing him through another rushed morning are replaced by reactions to him playing karate in the living room instead of eating his cereal.

Hands buried in soapy water, firmly spoken encouragements turn into volume-up demands. Reinforced with furrowed brow—adding years as quickly as puffing cigarettes—and tensed shoulders—causing knotted muscles as tightly as hunching over a keyboard—my ability to “do it all” is severely called into question.

The true question is why do I have to?

 

The true answer is because I want to.

 

 

 

Not in the way I once did, as a woman who wanted to take care of everything so there would be nothing for anyone to complain about. But in the way of many mothers I know, whether working inside or outside the home. As a woman who finds pieces of her true self in each of these roles.

 

I usually choose to ignore the injustice of being a woman.

I savor the daily rebirth of my intention to be a mother, who works.

A female who desires the reciprocated love of a man.

A woman unafraid to lead.

A person willing to follow.

A constant dichotomy, a nearly duplicitous life course. Sacrificing a singular goal for the fury of narrowly accomplishing a series of less well-conceived aspirations.

I intend: To be the mother who puts down my laptop to pick up his incessant requests to play doggy. To be the female confident to ask for what she needs. To be the woman aware of her ability to successfully steer a project to conclusion. To be the person capable of satisfaction.

 

Intentions are like butterflies.

Born from the hard work of allowing one’s true potential to develop. Thrust into a world full of traps intent to crush and confine. Briefly aware of the impact of its own brilliance. Wisped away, living only as a memory to those who witnessed its transformation.

So it is to be intent on being the everything woman.

Born from the impression that working hard is not enough. Trapped in a world requiring women to be more than a mother, but less than a man. Aware of life created as it sprouts with spirit and design. Eyeing each passing breath as the thief of energy, the dismissal of time.

There is an injustice in the expectation that women live for others—their children, partners, bosses—and do it all with no complaints and no mistakes.  There may be a day when I discover the balance between the mother, the woman, the female and the person.

Meanwhile, I intend to greet tomorrow as I greeted today, with intention.

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