Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood

I have loosed you here,
where trains once tugged
through the woods like zippers,
and children climbed thick ropes
of wisteria, watching the spit
of steam into the Jessamine air,
the spiriting of cargo to faraway places.

To understand what a door is,
to understand that something opens,
to see the line of light behind it,
pull and go through.

I. Love. My. Job. I am one of those lucky people who can say, sincerely, that I’m doing what I came into this world to do. I would—and do—teach classes and attend births without getting paid a dime. I’d like to tell you it’s because I’m a good and moral person, but that’s not the whole story. When I’m in front of a group of expectant mamas and their partners, I’m on fire. I’m in the flow. I’m a rock star. And yet . . .

I am sucked into baseball every year. I tell myself that I’m not like the other parents, the ones schmoozing with the coaches, paying for expensive clinics and camps in the off-season, the ones with enough baseball gear to outfit an entire team; but we’re all the same.

I want the world to stay like this,
fragile and new in the early morning:
first snow on the silhouette of every tree,
stars fading into the sun’s first light.


I wanted Ethan to be at the hub of good humored jostling and easy conversation, while I provided the space, the plentiful food, the proverbial welcome mat.


My daughter and I caught a snake in mid-molt at the zoo last week.

I loosened my grasp on Ben. The seizure did not. A new round began. My body was tired, my mind spent.


I could do this forever. Blame myself, absolve myself of blame, blame myself again. I'm his mother, after all.

Rae looks down at her bulbous belly. She is nothing if not a record of time.

I like to start the new year with a clean house, an empty calendar and a long-deferred project to tackle.


In a beautiful way, the tables turned and she was encouraging me to read.


I am a much better mom when I show my kids that I am more than just their mom.

I pull him close, turn his face to the window: / beauty is a silent teacher.


Cage or comfort thick with wanting / another place and God these marshes between.


You wave me off, / legs bending and stretching, / a master and his machine weaving ribbons / of speed from light


This test is important. / This test is inconsequential.


She painted letters on tin caps for the children to play with.

Jennifer Robson shares how a J.K. Rowling documentary and the success of Downton Abbey helped shaped her writing career.

Travel essayist Carrie Visintainer has redefined motherhood for herself by equally embracing her desires for wanderlust and domesticity.


With epistolary poems written to her young children and an array of formal enterprise (from ghazal to prose), these poems deserve a wide readership in both English and Italian.