Motherhood is not a shiny thing

Motherhood is not a shiny thing.
You don’t bring her home
to hang on the wall,
Dust your hands off with pride
and walk away satisfied.

Or place her on a shelf
for admiration alone.
That’s not how this goes.

Mothers aren’t born,
Like they like to say.
They’re unearthed
Mined from the depths
Refined and
Chiseled away
They are utterly excavated,
I guess you could say.

Motherhood
is not gradual,
it’s not gentle.
The process is not pretty.
She’s thrust on to you, really.

Dents and dings
will accumulate.
She’ll become worn from use.
Her luster depreciates
quicker than you assumed.

She’ll feel heavy,
too heavy
some days.
Like your grip
just
might
slip

But, know this:
you can’t lose her
drop her
or break her,
okay?

She’s resilient.
She’s brilliant.
Tenacious,
but gracious.

With time
she changes,
takes on a new hue

Where she used to gleam,
a deep patina shines through.
There’s more to her
and more to you.

Every mark on her tells a story.
This is her testimony.

Unashamed she wears them –
Wisdom.
Fortitude.
Beauty from ashes.

Let it be so
Not a shiny thing, no
Something more valuable;
More tender, more pure

Can you see it?
her true radiance
no longer concealed
like the Velveteen Rabbit —
now she is real.