Mom Rhyme Time

Disciplining a 13-Month-Old

2019-02-27T22:39:00.000-05:00

Disciplining a 13-month-old
is as futile as encouraging an ant
to do something good for humanity.

I mean really encouraging it, and
anticipating satisfying results
in proportion to your great effort.

Then, at some point it dawns on you that
you are counseling an ant
and, thus,
there will be no result.

So instead you find a small, white flag
and wave it dejectedly.
Your dying soul emits a strange currency,
a sound that makes mothers cry
and translates to:
"Nice try"
and
"Hahahaha! Sucker."

But don't blame the ant.
He never promised you a rose garden.

Warm Cheek

2019-02-24T21:27:00.001-05:00

Your cheek when you wake up
is perfect.

Warm,
Soft,
Plump,
it gives a little
when I lean my head in
to say, "Hello, sweetheart.
How was your nap?"

Cozy,
Precious,
Sleepy,
how irreplaceable
you are to me.

Rosy,
Toasty,
Happy,
a simple pleasure
entirely new.

Your cheek when you wake up
is perfect.

6-19-12

What Part Exactly Will I Miss?

2019-02-18T15:19:00.000-05:00

Supposedly someday you miss everything.
The way they talk, your future self will miss
every last second of your current existence.
You will yearn for the opportunity
to wipe the snot off your child's face,
until it dawns on you that it's not your child's snot
but the snot of a sickly child playing nearby.
You will weep whole-body sobs
because you can no longer scrub grass stains out of denim knees,
nor pay a plumber to retrieve small toys from pipes,
nor sleep in delightful two hour fragments.
You will instead be sleeping the entire night.
In black pajamas.
Because you are in mourning.

You will look up to the heavens, shake your fists,
and yell, "Whyyyyyyyy?
Whyyyyyy can't I apply expensive cream
to a toddler's whole-body rash right now?"
Then next to you, your husband will cry out,
"Whyyyy can't I cancel all of my plans and instead
wait for hours at Urgent Care for something that
turns out to be nothing??"
You will both collapse into a large heap
and contemplate the sad state of your lives.
Because your children have grown up.
And you are miserable.
You are the neglected mutts on TV,
begging for someone to give just $1.50 a day
(the price of a cup of coffee!)
so that you can be the parents of a young child again.

Well I call caca.

The only thing in recent memory that I will miss
is overhearing my 2nd graders reason that
"Jingle Bells, Batman smells!"
should instead be:
"Jingle Bells, Butt Man smells!"
because it is way more accurate.

I have to admit I will miss that.

My Toddler's Superior Calves

2019-02-13T11:50:00.000-05:00

How can someone who has walked, maybe,
20 miles total
in her two years of life
have better calves than I do?

I ran the mile once a year in gym class,
grades 2-8!
I've taken several nature walks,
and I strolled hurriedly across my college campus
for four years.
*a campus on a hill, for that matter*

My husband proposed at a campfire
near the shores of Crystal Lake.
We walked down to the fire,
and after I said, "Yes!"
we walked back to the cottage.
It was a beautiful night,
full of walking.

Did I mention I was in marching band?
The parades and festivals
flood my memory.
Several blocks would turn into a mile,
and a mile would turn into a couple miles,
all while carrying a trumpet.
A full-size trumpet.
Heavy.

And yet, I gaze at my daughter's
perfectly formed little legs
and I am happy for her.

She won't have to go through the
grueling workouts I did
in pursuit of
beautiful,
golden
calves.

We All Live in a Subba Yellowmeen

2019-02-12T19:54:00.001-05:00

Why is it only cute when kids
say things completely wrong?
I mean completely wrong.
Why not me?

If I were to start singing "We all live in a
subba yellowmeen,
a subba yellowmeen,
a subba yellowmeen"
at the top of my lungs,
over and over,
people would hunt me down with meat cleavers,
troll my Twitter and ignore my texts
until I stopped.

But noooooo.
My two-year-old can butcher the Beatles
until she's blue in the face,
and guaranteed there will be at least three
smart phones on her the entire time,
recording every
adorable,
incorrect
moment.

Somewhere between ages two and 39,
it stops being right to be wrong.

Somewhere in there.

It's a Really Great Salon

2019-02-08T16:26:00.006-05:00

The 20-year-old seated near me at the salon
is telling her stylist that she hates her cropped hair
and needs a new look.
She wrinkles her nose and complains:
"I have the haircut of, like,
a 40-year-old."

I try to hide my reaction,
but surely my widened eyes reveal that
I am 40.

Beastly.

Despised.

When her stylist nods knowingly
and returns a deeply sympathetic look,
my fury rises.
I say to Kelsey behind me,
"Pause, please."
The black cape shifts awkwardly as I stand;
I swivel it behind me.

Smoke billows softly at my ankles,

filling the air.
I place both fists at my hips

and inhale.

"Budding ninny!

How little you know

of the 40-Year-Old.

We are not as ancient as we appear.

The fine lines that trace

our eyes and necks

misrepresent the youth of our hearts.
The athleisure also jests

as it squeezes and smooths,
for we have worthy pursuits

and consequential lives!
The paunch you see before you

is not a sign of sloth,

but a life-giving orb of honor.
I resent your sneer and disgust.
Alas! What is wrong with the hair
of the 40-year-old?

Too short?
Too convenient?
Well, if short and convenient is wrong,
then I don't want to be right!"

They stare at me,
disturbed.

By now the smoke has settled,

so I remove my cape
and turn to leave the salon.
Kelsey is not finished with my haircut,
but it doesn't matter.
Who cares?
It is, after all,
the hair of

a 40-year-old.

Opening the door I call out,
maturely,
"Beast OUT!"
I click the unlock button
on my Toyota Sienna key fob,
anxious to turn on some Jewel
as I drive to Costco.

I'm sensitive,
and I'd like to stay that way.

Pardon Me for Not Fawning Over Your Big Promotion

2019-02-07T08:59:00.002-05:00

Pardon me for not fawning over your big promotion.
I used to have a job, too,
and I was good.
And I miss it.
And though I have a job now,
it doesn't really come with promotions.
Just a Facebook title of
SAHM.

I'm happy for you --
I truly am.
But you'll have to excuse me
for not fawning over your promotion,
and for wishing it was my own.

Open Books

2019-02-07T08:57:00.001-05:00

Their books are scattered throughout the house.
Pages open.
The pages are always open.
Freeze frames of their most recent reading session.
As if the volcano exploded
and the lava came so quickly
They had no time to close their books before fleeing.

I close and tidy them all,
muttering to myself in exasperation,
while these boys of Pompeii
live another day.

Writing Poetry with Kids Everywhere

2019-02-02T08:56:00.002-05:00

Writing poetry with kids everywhere
isn't as enjoyable as it sounds.

Laser beams dance across the screen
while yogurt shimmies down
the plastic zippers of blanket sleepers.
They shout helpful hints, like
"Mom! 'Time' rhymes with...'time'!"
And I am forced to utter
a maternal "Thank you"
while the frustrated professional within
shakes her fist.

Later I gather one in my lap
and bask in him.

The push and pull of irritation
and gratitude.

Reveille

2019-02-01T08:47:00.001-05:00

I had the perfect pillow height that night

and I slept so well

until the clear bell-sounds

of my diminutive supervisor

rang out in the early morning darkness.

Her brisk forward march into my bedroom

was quickly followed by roll call.

I could almost see

her clipboard and pen

as she announced her wishes and demands

for the day.

A strong soprano

with militaristic tendencies.

Precious little hawk.

Anna's Bakery: Muffin Tops for Sale

2019-02-01T08:46:00.001-05:00

O do you know the muffin mom, the muffin mom,

The muffin mom?

O do you know the muffin mom

who lives on Leggings Lane?

Oh yes! I know the muffin mom, the muffin mom

The muffin mom!

Oh yes, I know the muffin mom

Who tries not to be vain.

But yet she hates her muffin top, her muffin top,
Her muffin top.
But yet she hates her muffin top!
It never leaves her brain.