I fear the day my daughter turns 14

And tries to suck on a lollipop in class—

Because a girl in her class will

Be a slut just like her mother

And will make a comment suggesting

That the lollipop is a euphemism

Or a representation of a man’s property.

My daughter will contort her eyebrows,

But then will realize that her peers

Will suck more than a sucker, and that

Candy is much sweeter.

On this day, my son will kiss a girl

For the very first time, and I fear the

Moment he mistakes cravings for happiness.

You see, we don’t teach our children

That it’s okay to love without your body—

We only teach them that kisses goodnight

Are the most important way to say I love you.

So they kiss to say I love you too.

I dread the moment my daughter walks in

Holding her chest because something’s wrong—

She’ll pull her hand away from her body

Revealing blood from palm to sternum,

And shards of glass will poke from where

Her heart is supposed to be.

I couldn’t warn her that broken hearts were

Inevitable, so instead of building her out

Of metal, I taught her to be made of glass

And now it’s my fault she’s been shattered.

I don’t know what I’ll do when my son comes

Home saying that it broke and he doesn’t know

What to do. Mom I’m scared, he’ll say.

I taught him how to have safe sex, but I never

Taught him that safety is never guaranteed

And that you can still die even if you wear your

Seatbelt 100% of the time. Nine months later, he

Will learn what it’s like to die in a car wreck

Without ever being in one.

I am aware that as a mother, I won’t be able to

Teach my children how to be perfect—

It is in imperfection that they are beautiful

And in their mistakes will they find answers.

It is my job to make sure they have wings to fly;

It is the only job I’ve ever wanted.

At the end of the day when they ask, Mommy,

Why do you look so sad sometimes? I’ll answer

That it is because I’m trying to teach my babies

How to survive in a world made for execution

And no one taught me how to be a teacher.