25 years ago, in selfishness and hubris,
I created life.
What was I thinking,
to inflict this monstrous world created by men
on something innocent and helpless?

I too have a complicated relationship
with motherhood,
but it took me far longer
to learn that everyone
is a morally complex monster.

I wanted children long before I selected a husband
and wanted a son long before I was pregnant,
because I feared
I could not safely raise a daughter
in this monstrous world of men.

My wounds are less deep and fatal,
but is there a surviving
woman of my age,
in this monstrous world created by men,
without trauma?

Once delivering a son I felt a nagging worry that
like Mary Shelley I might author both man and monster.
Yet now that son is fully a man
in possession of prefrontal cortex and job
and cardinal array of friends.

I assembled the parts that made the man: his father’s hands,
his grandmother’s coloring, his grandfathers’ names,
the height of my Dutch ancestors. Yet he is more than their sum.
Although I take full credit and
apologize again for the scar on his chin.

My creation has taken control of his story and I am in awe
of the firewood gathered to warm the hearths of others,
the life lessons gleaned from storied monsters,
cloaked wizards, and fiery stormriders.
Somehow, learning to be a kinder, gentler soul than me.