I am not sure whether it was The burnt banana bread Or the under-spiced Over-baked biscuits That did it But I am thoroughly Sick-as-a-dog Fed up to the back teeth And beyond With the schoolyard B*llsh*t bakesale Not just the politics The cut and thrust Of who gets to bake And who gets to buy At the thrice termly Repeating misery That is the fundraiser Conspicuous, competitive, Consumption For a school committee With more money Than common sense Soliciting donations: Baked goods; sweets; Good-as-new toys; Dictating requirements: Own clothes; costumes; Odd shoes; socks; Random coloured shirts; Hair ribbons; headgear; We all pay for a day Out of uniform Or suffer culinary torture Face it, ladies I can actually cook But my kitchen will never be One hundred percent Gluten or nut-free I don’t want to poison Anyone (by accident) And I resent the waste Of good ingredients This charade entails Let’s just forget it The whole in-crowd Phenomenon What are we, twelve? Phooey to the PTA! Us working mums have Bigger problems Than dusting off a dirndl To play at housewife On a weekday afternoon Though what you choose To do with your own time Is none of my business. And that was my Considered, rational, Personal perspective Before we ate the Glitter-encrusted Muffin of doom That somehow gave The entire family Galloping gut rot (Even the cat) Don’t ask me how I no longer care We have run out of Buckets, bog roll, And fresh underwear Seriously, Screw the whole thing! I am switching to Online donations At least they don’t Require that I provide Correct change Nor that I invest my Hard earned paycheck In industrial quantities Of bathroom bleach And antacids Only to be sneered at By the clique of Suzie home-maker And sycophants Holding court At the school gate Judging me and mine For our contribution To the latest cause
motherhood
At bedtime
I lack the words to describe this feeling
My sense of oneness with you
Who grew out of my flesh
And into this world
Making room for yourself
In our lives as if
You had always been there
On the edge of existence
Just waiting to step out
Into the light
We hold you
Folded tightly in arms
That we now see
Decaying
Withering as those
Of our parents did
Limbs curving
From old embraces
Into a touchless existence
You grow as we shrink
Such is the way
Of the world
But for a moment
I may yet hold you
Suspended in the bliss
Of a mother’s love
You fall to sleep
In my arms
I can pretend
We are still one
Cocooned
In this microcosm
Debussy hour
As the first strains of the piano
Arpeggios arch through the gloom
Of the blinds-pulled living room
You curl in my arms
Nuzzle for a breast
As if you were not outgrowing
Your babyhood
So keen to stretch skyward
When will I be a Big Girl, Mummy?
Soon enough, my lovely,
Soon enough.
This hour is my solace.
Your warm breath on my shoulder
Legs folded around my thigh
We embrace upon the sofa.
I ignore the floor
What little of it remains visible
In the chaos of your wake
Toys strewn like flotsam.
I am drowning by inches
Yet this is not playtime
I will not despair
For my once neat home
It matters little
And shall be overcome
Once we are both back on our feet.
Eyelids flutter as we reach for
The second movement
Ears adjusting to familiar rhythms
I reach for the mouse
Scroll to the next page
Of our story
Welcoming this forced pause
Suspended in our time
Inhabiting this shared space
To the end of the lullaby