I’m enjoying Mothers Day…really, I am. I had a sleep-in, which I love, and was given the gift of noise-isolating headphones for my mp3 player (they’re actually fantastic but, oh, the irony!). My daughter has been hugging me all morning, wishing me ‘Happy Mothers Day’ whilst also asking me when it will be finished. She put on her thickly-tread gumboots to play outside after lunch and promptly walked through poo left on the deck by our geriatric dog who can’t quite make the lawn anymore. Wouldn’t be so bad except she had walked it all over the decking boards before I noticed the smell, having just sat down to read a magazine that I’ve scanned the same page of for the last 3 days. I burnt caramel in the saucepan and had to send out the troops for more condensed milk whilst I dealt with my teary ineptitude. I’m going away for work tomorrow and haven’t packed or organised anything related to meetings or the daycare run. All in all – a pretty typical day as me, and as a Mum.
In stark contrast to this – I’ve been reading a lot of facebook posts today about mothers, from friends to their Mum, grandmother or daughter. Lots of flowery well-wishes, chrysanthemum-kisses and pale pink-dusted memories. Some of the messages infer motherhood is one long cupcake baking session. Stark contrast to my day so far. Where’s the ‘thanks for wiping my bottom’ or ‘thanks for tolerating my belligerently toned teenage years’? It got me thinking about being a Mum, and the tremendous highs and lows that come with the experience – for all involved. There’s no denying that sometimes I look at my daughter, my gorgeous girl, and am overwhelmed with love to the point of weeping. Other times…well, I’m being honest – I’m sure she’s as unhappy with my behaviour as I am with hers.
Which brings me to today’s post. A little unrefined, but warranted. A more balanced view of a mother’s days, not just the May-dated one. For Belle. Enjoy.
Motherhood.
You want it cold,
you want it hot,
you want it warm,
You want it ‘NOT’.
You whinge to me
Of hair astray,
And blame me, too,
For missing play.
I write your name,
For you to trace.
You roll your eyes
And pull that face.
I bathe your limbs,
I wash your clothes;
You paint the walls
And pick your nose.
You stamp your foot
And cry in rage,
And all I did
Was turn the page.
I touch your face
To make you smile.
You frown at me
and run a mile.
I paint your nails
The colour pink.
You chew it off
And flood the sink.
You want a say
In clothes and shoes,
Then moan and cry
When I say ‘choose’.
You drive me mad
And age me fast.
I had you late;
I hope I last.
And whilst oft’ said,
it’s more than true;
You’ll never know
How much I do.
Yet in the blur
Of daily grind
Such joy and warmth
In you I find.
Your frowning smiles,
Your happy tears,
Your lovely face
I hold so dear.
So in this deal,
I think I win.
Your hand in mine,
Your cheeky grin.
For here I am,
And you are too.
I am your Mum.
Thank God for you.
Sunday girl. In Newie. 