#53: The Boat Was Doc'd - The Berth Was Locked (Motherhood)

You Might Say That It's Propitious,
Judicious And Even Obstetritious.
Some Hate Anything Officious,
And Even Branded It Malicious . . .
The Very Thought . . . Men Doing Dishes.

But Regardless How You Judge, Or Rate Your
Mom, She's Blessed And Cursed With Nature!

You can imagine how strange it felt,
when for a third straight time
we powered through oblivion to land
upon the same old dime.

Again the windshield cleared, and we
looked at the very barn
which we'd experienced twice before . . .
Jo sighed deeply, "Darn!

Why can't we get away from here?
What else is there to learn?
Emotions cannot forever take
this heartful-hurt sojourn."

While Jo was ever so lightly in
a modest complaining mood,
I watched the front of the house begin
shedding all of its wood.

In seconds I watched the splintering walls
start to break and bend . . .
like mechanical arms from the building,
they started to extend.

They stretched the distance of the yard,
and came around our car.
In horror, both of us jumped away,
but didn't get too far.

The new walls quickly closed on us,
and sealed off all retreat.
We found the seemingly weakest point
was tougher than concrete.

We yelled and screamed, and did what we
could think to do to crease
the impenetrable partition standing now,
preventing our release.

The oddest characteristic of
that prison-forming wall
was just how soft it was to touch . . .
without a budge at all.

With clearly no mood to hurt us,
it did not move to crush.
My worry was we'd suffocate
from an overdose of plush.

Once in a while they'd vibrate with
some bludgeon from outside.
Still, we screamed our insults and,
desire for freedom's ride.

The sky was clear, without a cloud,
but we thought we could trace
rain drops streaking down the wall
like tears across a face.

"What the hell?" I looked at Jo,
angry, but feeling safe.
"What word will get us out of here . . .
are we sentenced to this State?"

"Bo, maybe I'm just getting tired,
but I'm ready to give in.
This mother hasn't moved an inch,
despite how bad we've been!"

Well, okay, so these tales are old,
and the Reader foresees it so . . .
but we were surprised when the wall right then,
parted, and let us go.

The Carriage started right up again . . .
and melting from its track,
the wall, like a movie in reverse,
shrank the whole way back.

We already had some experience of
this strange and crazy house,
and other adventures had taught us well . . .
gift horses have scary mouths.

Into the Buggy we jumped in hopes
of escaping with due speed.
The windshield blurred, and I turned to see
a hose detach and bleed.

"Well," Jo said, as we whirled our way
into the vast unknown,
"I trust you have some concept as
to what we've just been shown."

"Well, I must admit, that I've cooked up
a sort-of recipe,
for what we've seen . . . half-baked or not,
I guess it's kind-of a theory . . .

In the first place, speaking for myself,
after we cleared the yard,
my elation at being free gave way
to being a little scared.

I won't make symboled references
to how that prison room
might also, easily, be compared
to something like a womb . . .

that locked us in, but also kept
some hurtful stuff away.
While we just stood there cursing for
our ego's freedom day.

No, I really get the feeling that
it meant us only good.
I really think that might have been
the State of Motherhood."

"You boys are finally coming around,"
we heard the Voice break in.
"I'm impressed you figured something out.
Your brilliance has no end!

Yes, Motherhood is a most complex
philosophical thing,
with a hundred contradictory wants,
and each, its own heart string.

Of course, she wants your happiness,
though granting it restricts,
her ability to protect you from
the hurt that life inflicts.

Her passion for your safety might
become imprisoning . . .
she pushes you to confidence,
before you test a wing.

She wants you to be hard enough
to never hurt from pain,
but for the world to see that your
compassion does not wane.

She wants you to be clever, but,
so not to put off friends.
She expects your individualism
to call for no defense.

As master of the amorous arts,
attain the world's repute,
while abstinence and self-respect,
must be absolute.

She boasts your tireless service, but
she'd like you waited on.
She routes your team as long as you're
the celebrated one.

She wants you to be hard as nails,
but gentle to the end . . .
to enjoy the wildest freedoms, while
you exercise no sin.

She wants you to shine gloriously,
but maybe not too bright
that enemies may covet you,
and seek to pick a fight.

She wakes each day, burdened with love
that can't do any other
than cause the loved to rue its cell . . .
this, the curse of Mother.

And while you're screaming for release,
and angered by love's toll,
understand that she's the one
sentenced without parole . . .

where you mature and find a mate,
new days and paths to cross,
only death commutes her term
of anguish at your loss.

There's only one exception that
can help you when you pack . . .
a younger sibling staying home
to help take up the slack."

Then somehow, we knew the Voice
had taken its due leave.
We just sat still and let the Car
choose which way to weave.

As we rode on, we heard the sound,
though unheard heretofore,
a radio in the Buggy's dash
performed the State's encore . . .

much worse than country music noise,
no voice could more abuse . . .
"I've got the already-hatched . . .
and-I-can't-get-back-inside blues . . ."