The Poet Mom

A blog about the joys and frustrations of being a mom.

Tag: homemaking

Vestige of a Woman

The young woman who loved fearlessly, thought deeply and met life courageously

She now has a family and a virtuous career in homemaking.

She knows she is not the sum of dishes, laundry, chores and mothering.

She is buried but not yet dead.

She implores with every pot and pan washed, every shirt crisply ironed, each runny nose swiped. . .

See ME!  Know ME!  Respect ME!  Love ME!

Let ME free!

But her pleas are transient and evaporate quickly.

She is trapped by choice, restrained by propriety,

Buried by necessity with the loose change beneath the cushions.

But not yet dead.

This poem was written in one of those “moments” we all have.  (At least I hope we all have them.  Please tell me I’m not the only one!)  However, when I shared it with a friend, she reminded me in her very eloquent way that there are always two sides to the coin.  I don’t feel this poem is complete without her addition.

Even when you are in cammoflage,

in your cloak of cook, cleaner, tutor, supporter, enabler

Your powerful essence shines through.


Creator of life, creator of words that move,

Compassionate, smart, competitive

I am so glad to call you my friend.

Fashion Statement

A quick scan of my closet

Reveals the dismal truth.

The stained T’s and cropped yoga pants

Have replaced the haute couture of my youth.

How did this happen?

And why didn’t anyone shout,

“Hey, you, Lady!

Back away from the discount T-shirt rack.”

I have a good idea when I went astray.

It was the day I made the discovery

That the one who loves all things dirty, grimy, and buggy

Meant more to me than any finery.

My garments are comfy and practical.

They reliably stay the course.

And when they finally cave under the pressure,

It’s into the rubbish bin with no remorse.

I take heart knowing the day will come

When I can again look my best

Someday all too soon

When those filthy angels finally flee the nest

Until that day arrives,

I’ll wear my uniform with pride.

For every sticky fingered hug

Makes me feel like a super model inside.


My day starts with a bang and ends with a muted wail.

Every sound in between is of equal scale.

TV voices rattle on at all levels.

Music blares at rock concert decibels.

Doors  slam, phones ring,  batteried gizmos squawk, beep and drone.

Voices cry my name in all manners of tone.

I patiently carry on amid the unrelenting clamor

And try to remain sane until the kids begin to slumber.

When at last all the noises suddenly abate

And my mind has a chance to acclimate,

I realize the insane cacophony

Has become my cherished symphony.

The Toilet

I clean it and care for it because I must

But make no mistake it is my enemy.

The odor makes my nose wriggle in disgust.

Its maintenance requires advanced alchemy.

The oozing drips and yellow puddles

Fill my heart with dismay.

The state of it befuddles.

How could it look like this every day?

My roomies seem not to notice my frustration

As they continually manage to miss the mark.

For them there is no mitigation

It is my task alone on which to embark.

I purchase the latest in cleaning absurdities

And diligently perform my recalcitrant duties.

However, I alone cannot sustain the neatness I desire.

So, it is a maid I will very soon hire.