I started this in the midst of a very Bad Mum Day. The kind when, despite best intentions, nothing gets done, everything goes wrong and the baby senses your stress and uses it to destroy your spirit. It seems the more I try to achieve some days, the less I manage. I woke with a long To Do list – FYI, To Do lists only make you feel like a failure – and a determination to make my son an amazing cake for his Birthday the following day. By 6 p.m. I had a questionable sponge with toxic green icing (I’d attempted baby blue), and hadn’t crossed one thing off my silly, over ambitious list. I’m not sure why writing a poem about it seemed a sensible option, but it was apparently too early for gin.
Today I tried my best to be the kind of mum I should,
It seems I didn’t do too well, and things aren’t looking good
I’m sat here eating minstrels, and the house has gone to hell,
Can I have tomorrow off if I pretend to be unwell?
Cleanliness and godliness, they’ve passed me right on by,
The dust settles too quickly and the washing’s piled too high
The toys make the house messy, and the hoover stands too still,
Perhaps I’ll blitz it all tonight, if I only had the will
I spent 50 minutes rocking, but the baby’s still awake,
His dummy thrown, his raspberries blown, a fool of me he makes
He rubs his eyes with tiredness; his yawn is loud and long,
Even demons sleep eventually, how long can this go on?
And now he needs his dinner, it must be healthy and be fresh,
This self-feeding’s not working, how can he make such mess?
The kitchen’s like a crime scene, bolognaise smeared on the door,
I’ll eat a bit of pasta Mum, but the rest’s going on the floor
So I try to tidy up, and put some stuff away,
For him to pull it out again, this happens every day
We once again abandon, and I cuddle him instead,
I’ll sing that song you love so much, and hope you go to bed
All this stuff I should be doing, as a certain kind of mother,
Never quite fulfils me from one day to another
I’m allergic to the ironing and the garden’s out of hand,
How so many mummies multi-task I just don’t understand
And then there’s that holistic stuff, that precious time for me,
Where exactly shall I fit that in? Or just fail miserably?
I should have other interests, to be balanced and be whole,
Don’t get too lost in mumminess, I must have other goals
So where are all these mothers, with their nice nails and straight hair?
Your house is clean, your baby sleeps, what secrets can you share?
I’m sure that you are out there, I know that you exist
John Lewis adverts tell me, so it can’t be just a trick
As I down another coffee, I ponder all this stuff,
If I can really have it all, if having all’s enough?
Say my house was tidy, and my hair shiny and neat,
Would it really feel that great, or make my life complete?
So I’m more Primark than Boden, and I’m stained with Lord knows what,
I’m too tired to be bothered, plus I’m happy with my lot
The baby’s well and smiling; his daddy’s just come home,
He’s mopping up the crime scene while I have a good old moan
We made it through a rubbish day, even if there’s more to come,
I’m chucking the To Do list ‘cos there’s more to being a mum
Tomorrow I will focus on the things I don’t do badly,
Like silly games and tickle time, and loving my boy madly.
Does anyone else have days of attempting lots and achieving nothing? Or is it just me?!
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