It’s hard to be the mother of a young but growing teen,
Not a child, not an adult, but out swirling in between,
Where the limits aren’t a license, just temptation of their fate,
and cliffs of consequences are ridiculously great.
It’s hard to be a mom when all the friends are calling loud,
and it seems the greatest need she has is fitting in the crowd,
when you know she never will because you’ve been there and you’ve tried,
and you wish that you could save her tears for everyone you’ve cried.
It’s hard to know just what to do or even how to be
when your daughter is a butterfly who’s struggling to be free.
She just can’t seem to find herself, continuing to roam,
and she always seems to make it worse by hurting those at home.
It’s hard to be called “mom” when you’d rather be called “friend”
but you hold on to the hope that you will get there in the end.
That’s all you have, the hope that she will some day realize,
that she’s always been a princess in her dad’s and mother’s eyes.
for Tinisha, December, 2007