Once, after nap time, 
I found half of a cherry Blow Pop stuck
to my son’s bed sheets.
His fingers and chin glistened, sticky
with sugar, bright with the color 
of joy. His toddler lips were garish, 
as though an unsteady hand
applied lipstick to them in the dark.
He’d always had a weakness for
the saccharine, pilfering treats and 
leaving the evidence behind:
a cache of candy wrappers in his closet,
cookie crumb trails on the tile,
donut glaze caking his chubby fingers.
We bought a pantry lock to keep him
from climbing to the top shelf
like a little ant
in search of candied confections.

I never had a sweet tooth; I craved
popcorn, crackers, the tang of salt
and vinegar chips. But now
all I want each night before bed
is a bowl of ice cream—cold 
and rich, big enough to hold
the day’s burdens: headlines full
of war, children dying, hostages,
genocides, mothers 
separated from their children, 
tyranny dressed in a suit and tie, 
the rewriting of history, 
bombs and blasts, hypocrisy.

I pair my nightly scoops of vanilla with
videos of dancing birds, pouncing puppies, 
and laughing babies. I binge 
comedy specials, British dramas, 
and bubblegum pop. 
Like my son, I roam the pantry now,
searching for something sweet, no
lock to hold me back.
I seek the sugar rush
of military homecomings, surprise
proposals on beaches, goats just being goats.
My midnight snack is remembering
the way my toddler danced in his carseat 
when his favorite song came on,
my middle child laughing at his own knock knock jokes,
the way my daughter gets lost in a good book.

I cannot look away from the headlines,
I refuse to ignore the hurt of the world.
I need to see, need to feel, need to force 
my heart to shatter (over and over
and over) so I can offer it to others, piece
by piece. But—
brokenness is not mutually exclusive
from joy, and I won’t refuse 
the sticky crumbs, savoring 
stories of rescue and mothers 
marching side-by-side. 

I cannot help 
but sink my teeth
into the complex meat
and marrow of life, taste the sting 
of salt on my lips, gnaw on the 
sour jawbreaker, swallow
the bitter greens of the world. 
And so I pray 
when darkness smashes 
my heart open, like a piñata, 
Lord, please 
give me a sweet tooth.
Remind me to taste 
and see your goodness; 
help me hold hope
with heartache. 
May I always crave 
the sweet nectar 
of justice,
of love, 
of peace. 

---

Looking for more words about motherhood, life as a geriatric millennial, and finding beauty in sacred/ordinary things? Subscribe to my newsletter, Late to the Party. Every couple of months, you’ll receive a short note from me, some personal recommendations, and a journal prompt.

---

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series “Mellifluous.”