Stopping to smell the … proses?!

OKAY, I don’t normally do this. Write poem-ish type stuff. And if I did, I was about 18 and full of myself. But this thing jumped in my head last night and wouldn’t let me sleep till I wrote it down. That’s not to say it’s good. It’s very probably not. But anything extra that keeps me up at night needs to be purged… I have enough problems! End disclaimer.

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I am a creature of long-standing tolerance, walking for miles in this life pushing a pissed-off trolley as one child swings madly and the other threatens to jump.

I dictate apologies, kisses and cuddles, time-outs and lectures in harmony and hygiene. My mantra is little more than: kiss and make-up. Put down that stick. Let me wipe your nose.

I subsist on mushed-up muesli bars conveniently stuck to my fingers or thinly sliced fruit that’s been forfeited. My sips of cold coffee come between folding laundry and mopping chocolate milk off the floor.

I find some peace at playgroup, shovelling in someone’s freshly baked cake and talking loudly to adults in the hopes its echoes will reach right into the unavoidable, lonelier parts of my day.

I sneak peeks of my own brain via the laptop. Words that aren’t instructions or reprimands are exotic, indulgent… soul-preserving.

No longer master of my own destiny, I conform to unpredictable rules that the pillow must be the right way up, that you can’t discuss a child’s age if it’s not his birthday and the hangable offence of serving up mandarins when oranges were promised.

A livid baby monitor programs my sleep into oblivion.

I am mother. I am mum. My work is never ending but nor, it seems, is my love.


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