Everything I demand of her lately is an affront to who she is.
Be quiet. Stay focused. Get down. Sit still.
She was made to move.
She was made to leap and bound and climb.
Her eyes were made to follow the butterfly out the window,
not the stick on the chalkboard.
Her voice was made to laugh too loud,
her legs to run like mad,
her brain to ignore the caution I beg her to heed.
She was made for the charge,
to bridle her own steed,
and to try her mother’s patience.
She was made in my womb and she’ll always be mine,
but she wasn’t made for me.