wishful thinking

if money wasn’t an object, i think i’d love to be a mom
just a mom, you know
not a wife, not a daughter in law, not a boss nor an employee
just, a mom
i’ll be making apple pies and studying new recipes for dinner while waiting for them to come home from school in that golden sun-filled kitchen
i’ll be taking them to dance classes, to their piano lessons or outdoor painting trips
i’ll be keeping all of those old and worn out tiny baby clothings in a wooden chest under my bed
evenings are spent in the cozy reading room, surrounded by walls of old books, hot cups of chocolate with cinnamon powder on the table next to a brightly lit hearth, the little ones will likely doze off in front of an open world of letters and thoughts on the long couches that smell like nostalgia and i’ll be tucking them in the woolen blankets that i knitted myself
i’ll take them to those monthly volunteering or charity events, to the gay pride parades, to museums, to art exhibitions, to ballet performances
when they turn nineteen, i’ll tell them baby, go and see the world for yourself, as nothing can compare to the breath taking glamour of Paris, to the buzzling liveliness of Copenhagen, to the throat tightening sadness from events of history that is still lingering in so many corners of Berlin in the eyes of a fresh blood
i’ll hug them through all the distress from exams, from career expectation, from peer competition and tell them that no matter what, mom believes in you, you are strong and beautiful
But then money is always an object.
And also exams, for which I should be studying right now instead of typing this.
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