Outnumbered Two to One

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It’s been years since I’ve written poetry. I used to. Pretty often, in fact. But somewhere, somehow the inspiration left me. Inspiration, motivation, it’s all the same isn’t it? If I’m willing to skip a shower for some one on one time with my DVR, is it reasonable to assume I’d be capable of formulating powerful metaphors?

That would be a big fat negative.

When this week’s Spin Cycle assignment was dispatched, I was actually kind of excited. I figured I’d stretch those creative muscles once again and wow you all with my talents. As the week progressed though, it was pretty apparent I was procrastinating (and that my writing muscles had turned to writing cellulite). I was banking on that great intangible “inspiration” to walk right up to me and punch me in the jaw with a great idea. Unfortunately in a house full of four bickering monkeys, that fickle friend “inspiration” wouldn’t even grace me with a post card. She’s off visiting somewhere they have hor d’oerves, soft music, and glasses of red wine.

So here I am on a Friday, smack up on a deadline, wondering what the heck I’m going to write about, and how the heck I’m going to make it look like a poem. I’ve never been much for rhymes, I was more of a brooding free form kind of gal, but of late, darkness is usurped by exhaustion. Rather than brood, I snore. It works for me.

But what about the poem…

I want to write about motherhood and love’s ethereal glow
(insert shrieking child here)
About the difficulties and challenges and how little we actually know
(insert loud children’s programming here)
I want to tell you with eloquence about the light in my children’s eyes
(insert loud bang that might be a child walking in to a table edge here)
I want to tell you truthfully about the insecurities I despise
(insert crying, shrieking child with a bruise here)
I want to form a poem that will summon a tear or two
(insert child kicking their tiny bare feet at the laptop computer here)
I want to paint a picture of the hard work we mothers do
(insert child crying because you asked them a little too forcefully to stop kicking the computer here)
I want to say how some days things just don’t follow a plan
(insert small crying child throwing a paper plate full of pancake pieces at their mother here)
And I want to say it all in as few words as I can
(insert mother picking syruppy breakfast foods out of her hair here)
In the end all I can do is show this picture I have made
(insert sleepy child burying his face in his mother chest here)
And tell you with perfect honesty that there’s nothing I would trade
(insert napping toddler here)

Isn’t he sweet when he’s asleep?

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