Motherhood Week 130
We actually talk to each other.
about wheels mostly,
but sometimes about squirrels and trees,
we're not quite at the birds and the bees.
Never have I been so in love,
And never have I been
You are only two and a half years young
doing the things that a two and a half’er should.
Like tipping my make up all over the floor (drat).
Or pulling sodden socks off the sodding clothes horse,
tossing them about with a galloping glee
for all of your entertained toys to see.
And the swiping off tables,
ooo that gets me going.
Everything in sight,
from bowls of dried up cornflakes
to chess sets, piece by piece.
I try to have places for things,
crayons in Roses tins.
No Mum, not a place for everything
and everything in its place,
I'm two and a half
and everything you adore belongs on the floor.
Put on your trousers and let's get going.
But I don't like clothes today Mum,
or going to the park
or staying upstairs
or changing my nappy.
But parenting isn't about making the parents feel happy.
Cause I'm happy in my heart quite simply that you exist.
You aren't tied down by the hands of our measured clocks.
You are free,
and thoroughly led emotionally.
I'm sorry that sometimes I'm not stronger for you
that I am a human too;
and wanting to cry.
I’ve been kicked in the face as I pushed you on the swing.
Had metal cars thrown in rage at me,
which I skillfully batted off with an empty potty.
No one told me
I needed self-defence classes.
I need a black belt in Karate!
And then genuine laughter spills out of you,
and you get a joke and all the conflict just passes away in a light breeze.
You are like sunshine warming through my every vein,
energising the very source of me,
right sizing me into my human shape.
I'm really not that important.
It can all be so simple and yet
motherhood can feel so incredibly intense
in the smallest of moments.
I'm bossed about,
snotted on (deliberately),
I sometimes get poo on my fingers,
I've been head butted (it really hurt),
scowled and whined at,
we regularly engage in various textile tugs of war.
My hair is twirled absentmindedly,
I'm clung to, a human pillow.
Out of the morning dark the gentlest of voices whispers
And it is pure.
As music takes hold of your body
and you dance with the freedom of a tribal warrior.
I sit still, watching you grow.
Banging a drum to the sound of your feet
you becoming the rhythm of my pounding heartbeat.
Motherhood week 130.