she wanted a little room for thinking: but she saw diapers steaming on the line

She wanted a little room for thinking:

but she saw diapers steaming on the line,

a doll slumped behind the door.

So she lugged a chair behind the garage

to sit out the children's naps.

Sometimes there were things to watch--

the pinched armor of a vanished cricket, 

a floating maple leaf. Other days

she stared until she was assured when she closed her eyes

she'd see only her own vivid blood.

She had an hour, at best, before Liza appeared

pouting from the top of the stairs.

And just what was mother doing

out back with the field mice? Why,

building a palace. Later

that night when Thomas rolled over and

lurched into her, she would open her eyes

and think of the place that was hers

for an hour--where

she was nothing,

pure nothing, in the middle of the day.

("Daystar" by Rita Dove)

This is one of my favorite poems in Morning Song: Poems for New Parents , a collection of classic and contemporary poems that are "not a bunch of poems about babies," but speaks rather to "the inner life of mothers and fathers" (Pulitzer Prize-winning authors Tracy Kidder and Richard Wilbur commenting on the dust jacket). There is just so much to relate to in this poem; the craving for some time and space to myself, to think, or be nothing; do nothing. At least not for anyone but me. Feeling the clock ticking during that precious nap time. The post-nap whining. The witching hour. Longing for her bedtime; only to be rolled into yet again.

Considering Lilly started preschool every morning this week, I might sound ungrateful. But it's only been three days. And I think even with three hours in the morning "to myself," I'll find myself holding on and clinging to nap time.