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When Dominique Snedeker left her Air Force career destined instead for marriage and family, she had no idea that transitioning from a professional to stay-at-home mom would be so difficult. A life-long dream, raising babies all day, every-day, was a challenge, but admitting this felt like she'd let herself, her children, her grandmothers, the world-her own ideals down. To process this disillusionment, she turned to writing. Those midnight and stolen-moment typing's birthed this collection of poetry, an ode perhaps, to motherhood.
Motherhood: The Crucible of Love explores the post-partum journey of self-rediscovery, the existential crisis every parent faces when suddenly life is no longer theirs. But parenting arouses instinctual love, a love that overwhelms, a love powerful enough to refine. Walk through this catharsis of honesty to find yourself remade in the furnace, in the heat, in the crucible we call love.
Becoming a mother-the breaking
Becoming the woman-a remaking
Standing at the mirror
Hair askew and tank stretched and spotted
With who knows what
I see nothing but blurry lines
And eyes I do not know.
The shock startles me and I wonder:
Where is the mother in the woman?
Where is the woman in the mother?
The question surprises me and I
Bump my head as I stare
Into unknown eyes, exploring
A woman I've forgotten
Or traded
For those sleepers flopped
Like puppies in bed.
The woman before the breaking
Must have been me.
I can't remember now
What solitude and papercuts
Feel like. But the paci on the sink
Warms my heart-
Little Eyes and fingers and toes
Flood my body with warmth
And a gummy smile with
One, two, what eight? little teeth
Makes my chest tight.
The mother is here.
And somewhere,
So is the woman.
Motherhood: The Crucible of Love explores the post-partum journey of self-rediscovery, the existential crisis every parent faces when suddenly life is no longer theirs. But parenting arouses instinctual love, a love that overwhelms, a love powerful enough to refine. Walk through this catharsis of honesty to find yourself remade in the furnace, in the heat, in the crucible we call love.
Becoming a mother-the breaking
Becoming the woman-a remaking
Standing at the mirror
Hair askew and tank stretched and spotted
With who knows what
I see nothing but blurry lines
And eyes I do not know.
The shock startles me and I wonder:
Where is the mother in the woman?
Where is the woman in the mother?
The question surprises me and I
Bump my head as I stare
Into unknown eyes, exploring
A woman I've forgotten
Or traded
For those sleepers flopped
Like puppies in bed.
The woman before the breaking
Must have been me.
I can't remember now
What solitude and papercuts
Feel like. But the paci on the sink
Warms my heart-
Little Eyes and fingers and toes
Flood my body with warmth
And a gummy smile with
One, two, what eight? little teeth
Makes my chest tight.
The mother is here.
And somewhere,
So is the woman.
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