Sharon Waller Knutson is a retired journalist who lives in Arizona. She has published several poetry books including My Grandmother Smokes Chesterfields (Flutter Press 2014) and What the Clairvoyant Doesn’t Say and Trials & Tribulations of Sports Bob (Kelsay Books 2021) and Survivors, Saints and Sinners forthcoming by Cyberwit. Her work has also appeared in Black Coffee Review, Terror House Review, Trouvaille Review, ONE ART, Mad Swirl, The Drabble, Gleam, Spillwords, Muddy River Review, Verse-Virtual, Your Daily Poem, Red Eft Review, The Five-Two and The Song Is…
Best Mom in the World
She dives like a swan in the blue
sky in her satin wedding gown
as her groom in black and white
tuxedo and shirt lifts her above
her head. Won’t we make beautiful
babies? she asks fingering the photo.
But you hate children. I remember
when we were rival reporters
attending parties on the weekend
and I was upstairs reading bedtime
stories to the children of the hosts
while she was hunting for Mr. Right.
After she is promoted as editor
of the social page and meets
the handsome architect
and trust fund baby, she flashes
a two carat diamond ring.
We can afford a houseful of kids.
We’ll just hire someone else
to take care of them. And I’m
not going to ruin my firm boobs
and flat stomach so we’ll pay
a surrogate to go through
morning sickness and labor pains.
I am surprised when years later
while visiting the San Diego Republic,
I spot her sitting in the break room
drinking coffee out of a mug, engraved:
Best Mom in the World, as she tells
me she is quitting to be a full time mom.
I gave two weeks notice today. I joined
the gym and signed up for Zumba, Yoga,
Pilates and Aerobics. Moms must be fit.
When I arrive for dinner at her four-story
home on the hill overlooking La Jolla
Beach, a middle-aged woman answers the door.
Madame is soaking in the bubble bath
before she dresses for dinner. She escorts
me into the family room where a young
fit brunette in a pony tail and jogging suit
is putting shoes on the toddler. Four
blond boys greet me with a curtsy and a smile.
I play scrabble with the six- and eight-year-olds
while bouncing the toddler on my knee
as the four-year-old stares with saucer eyes.
Whiskey, vodka or rum? the tall suit
says as he sticks his head in the room.
Just a glass of ice water will be fine.
The kitchen door swings open and a man
in a chef’s apron and hat exits with my water
as the scent of meatloaf and mushrooms
mixes with musk and lavender on her skin
as madame waltzes down the stairs
in stiletto heels and turquoise gown.
We’re going to the country club, she announces.
handing me a slinky red dress that fits like a stocking.
I told you not to touch mommy. It’s adult time,
she says as the nannies whisk away the boys.
Isn’t she the best mom? asks her husband
as we get into the Maserati and drive away.
