Second shift
I am a full-time mother
And a part-time wife
The remnants of my love life
Are strewn about like confetti-cuts
Of paper that here-and-there scatter
I am but robotic-in-motion matter.
Methodically getting through the day
With a periodic table of chores
The desensitize, sacrifice and bore
What does tomorrow have in store?
Probably nothing,
Which means more of the same.
A toddler tugging at my hips
A baby nursing on my nips
I am equipped for maternity
My mind is of modernity
I am a walking casualty
With the malady of which
Jokes about marriage and motherhood are made.
I go it alone for 5, 6, 7, 8 hours a day
I work two times as hard
For twice as little pay
Multi-tasking and responding to needs before asking
Babies bouncing on a bruised lap
Too much touching and fussing
Papers rustling, mentally cussing
I am adjusting to being a means without an end.
Will my afterlife be amorous?
Can I find companionship beyond books,
Adulterers’ lusty looks,
The hue-and-cry of discontented children
Conceived without caution,
A schedule that has their father leaving me often?
I am scintillating
I leave a trail of sparks when I put on heels
But what good does it do
If I can never dance?
“Beauty is my child’s face.”*
Is there a more perfect sight than the face of a beloved child? Is there a more perfect feeling than stroking the softness of their skin? Is there a more perfect smell than inhaling their sweet scent as you envelope them in a tight embrace? These are some of the intoxicating wonders of motherhood. How I love to dwell on my child’s exquisite features, but no matter how long or how intently I gaze, the image is always changing. It is the nature of childhood.
* © from 'Being Mummy' by Anne‑marie Taplin, published April 2007