we went to church today, sat nervously in the front row. i clutched the hymnal in my sweaty hands, bare feet on rough carpeted floor, and tried to be reverent. light came through the windows, and when the time came for a sharing of stories, the pregnant woman across from us stood up. the topic on the folded paper schedule was coyote, the trickster, but everyone had been sharing fatherstories. she stood up, one hand cradling her belly, and apologized for crying, though she wasn't crying yet. she said that she wanted to share her belief in her husband's ability to be a good father for their coming child, and as she did begin to cry, she reached a slim hand back and caressed him clumsily, her hand brushing down his hair and across his face. he smiled quietly and kissed her when she sat back down. the congregation clapped and old women dabbed their eyes.
as we sat in rittenhouse later, a cadre of children ran back and forth along a low wall behind the benches. every so often, a parent hollered a warning. they ignored us completely, intent on their imagined quests, back and forth atop the wall. for my final in women's lit, i wrote that motherhood is sacred now because we can choose to be mothers, or not to be. we can choose to bring life into the world when we know it will be loved and taught to love.
i think about the children i will have. i picture daughters, mostly, though occasionally a boychild with curled brown hair. i can only see them in those lives i imagine where i have found this germinating dream of sufficiency and soil that so commands me now. in my mind, they are strong children, not coddled, not refused. they delight in the tendrils of a pea plant and in their own minds and bodies. i want children who will eat their vegetables because vegetables are good things to eat, because they will know the taste of a real tomato and the season's first sprig of broccoli. i want to raise children who will change this world, who will carry forth the changes i hope to make. in their lifetime, we will run out of oil, out of room, out of clean water and breathable air. can i change the world enough that my daughters may be able one day to run their hands over a beloved's face and say this man will father my children well, this man i love?
as we sat in rittenhouse later, a cadre of children ran back and forth along a low wall behind the benches. every so often, a parent hollered a warning. they ignored us completely, intent on their imagined quests, back and forth atop the wall. for my final in women's lit, i wrote that motherhood is sacred now because we can choose to be mothers, or not to be. we can choose to bring life into the world when we know it will be loved and taught to love.
i think about the children i will have. i picture daughters, mostly, though occasionally a boychild with curled brown hair. i can only see them in those lives i imagine where i have found this germinating dream of sufficiency and soil that so commands me now. in my mind, they are strong children, not coddled, not refused. they delight in the tendrils of a pea plant and in their own minds and bodies. i want children who will eat their vegetables because vegetables are good things to eat, because they will know the taste of a real tomato and the season's first sprig of broccoli. i want to raise children who will change this world, who will carry forth the changes i hope to make. in their lifetime, we will run out of oil, out of room, out of clean water and breathable air. can i change the world enough that my daughters may be able one day to run their hands over a beloved's face and say this man will father my children well, this man i love?