“The Things I Didn’t Know I’d Teach You”

I thought I’d teach you

how to walk,

how to read,

how to say “please”

and “thank you.”

But instead—

I’m learning

how to sit

on the kitchen floor

at 6 a.m.,

and hold your heartbreak

over a broken crayon

like it’s sacred.

I didn’t know

I’d become

a translator

of your tears.

Didn’t know

my body would become

a thermometer

for your moods,

a sponge

for your chaos.

Didn’t know

I’d cry

when you did—

sometimes louder.

I thought I’d teach you

how to name colors,

but now I notice

the shape of clouds again.

You’ve slowed me down

to sidewalk speed.

To worm-watching.

To the holy ritual

of snack time.

You are my clock,

my compass,

my clearest mirror.

And in you,

I find both

the child I was

and the parent I’m still

becoming.

There is no manual

for the days

you refuse shoes

or the nights

you whisper stories

into my chest.

But somehow—

we figure it out.

Together.

Clumsily.

Bravely.

I thought I’d shape you.

But you are shaping me—

into someone softer,

quieter,

slower to judge

and quicker to laugh.

These are not lessons

I expected to teach.

But they’re the ones

we live

every day.

And somehow,

that’s more than enough.