Good As Old!

What's this I'm feeling?
These cramps have me reeling!
Am I sailing the ocean?
I'm green from the motion!
The germs are attacking!
My immunities are lacking.
Tired, nauseous, weak.
I'll barf if I speak.
Sign language a must
or my tummy will bust.
The toilet I frequent,
looking grossly indecent.
How long will this last?
I've got to heal fast!
There are children to tend.
On me they depend.
If only I could
suck it up and feel good.
Soup, popsicles, rest
will fight this germ fest.
Tomorrow I'll wake
and illness, I'll shake.
I'll be the old me
no sickness...just insanity!

Run Away

"I'm leaving!" he shouted,
face all pouted.
"Don't forget to pack!"
I yelled back.
"What kind of stuff?"
he asked rather gruff.
"Shoes, socks
collection of rocks,
toothbrush, underwear,
sticky gel for your hair,
pet lizards and their tank,
don't forget your piggy bank!
Bring a jacket, it gets cold.
Pack your scarf, it snows, I'm told.
Put in food, put in water
bring a fan for when it's hotter.
Pack some of your coolest toys
to share with other homeless boys.
Slippers, pillow, sleeping bag,
soap, shampoo, clean wash rag."
He stared at his bag
"It's too heavy to drag.
I guess I can't go."
I smiled, "I know."

Morn-ing

Waking, shaking, little sleepers faking.
Stressing, pressing, "Better get dressing!"
Cooking, looking, "Mom, where's my book?"-ing.
Needing, feeding, no time for pancake eating.
Rushing, brushing, toilet's clogged...stop flushing!
Bagging, nagging, "Keep your pants from sagging!"
Fooling, dueling, "Get busy! Time for school!"-ing
Driving, striving, always late arriving.
Prying, crying, so hard to say goodbye-ing.
Kissing, missing, thinking, "This is bliss!"-ing.

Ode To The Insane

Never have a single minute to myself.
Not askin’ for applause, great fame or wealth.
I need a moment to regain my mental health,
Yet, I’m still far from insane.

Please, give me just a second to explain!
Sisters, can’t you hear me? Don’t you feel my pain?
It’s easy to see, the message is quite plain.
As each day ends, I’m becoming insane.

Now, I’m not sayin it’s an unfair game.
I’m the one who chose to be a birthing dame.
I’ll take the rap, I’m the one to blame,
For coming way to close to being insane.

Before you judge me, walk a mile in my shoes.
Eight years in the making, my being stressed is not news.
What’s it gonna take to drive away these blues?
I'm pretty sure I’m going insane.

All these kids can be a real handful.
I’m a china shop, they’re the bull.
And the stress of having seven is taking its toll.
Yep, I’ve gone insane!

Yet, I face each day with hope renewed,
And a prayer that I don’t come unglued.
Try to ignore the comments from those who are rude
About why I chose to have a brood.

Yes, I’m tired and some days are rough.
But each trial only serves to make me tough.
And the joy will always be enough,
To help me through the difficult stuff.

Many say they wish they were like me.
They wish they’d had more than two or three.
They say I’m blessed, and I agree.
Maybe my joy comes with my insanity.

I'm glad that my Lord always knows my heart.
I thank God I have a husband who does more than his part.
As husbands go, he scores off the chart!
He loves me even though I can act insane...

Someday I’ll look back and laugh at these days,
And the hard times will seem like a fleeting phase.
Maybe I’ll miss the long forgotten craze
Of my seven little people, and their funny ways.

Someday I'll miss being insane.

Eleanor

Born one week late (worth gaining all that weight)
Tiny and sweet (6 labors... I was beat)
Marlie was elated ("brothers are overrated")
Two years have flown by fast (I thought you'd be my last)
So smart, so brave and strong (off to school before long)
Speaking in full verse (has even learned to curse) :(
Devil in your eyes (but you're an angel in disguise)
Thank you Jesus for this girl (the world's an oyster, you're it's pearl)

Phillip

My funny little Phillip Anthony,
You grace my life with your comedy.
Your eyes shine as though
A secret you know.
Your laughter spreads ever so contagiously!
My funny little Phillip Anthony,
Mischief to you, comes naturally.
Amazingly smart,
gifted in art.
Watching you grow brings such joy to me.
My funny little Phillip Anthony,
our "peanut", you will always be.
God's plan for you
and the great things you'll do,
will forever make me proud to be a mother to thee.

Trenton

Happy 6th Birthday Trenton William. This poem is for you...


T is for trouble, you've caused a whole darn lot:
R is for remember the time you smeared peanut butter all over your body and the whole kitchen?... I do
E is for ever considered a career in demolition? You've had tons of practice!
N is for never did confess to digging the dead gopher got out of the trash and dismembering it
T is for two dozen raw eggs you've splattered on carpets throughout the house
O is for only when you are sleeping do I dare sit and relax
N is for never would I trade you for a quiet, calm little boy. As much trouble as you cause, you are always my pride and joy!

Womanchild

Womanchild in over sized shoes
playing a role
she did not choose.
Born in position to be the first.
Some days it feels
like she was cursed.
"I'm still a baby
who needs to be coddled!
Yet, I'm all grown up
and don't want to be bottled!"
Her womanchild cries
do not fall on deaf ears.
I watch her sleep
and shed guilty tears.
She's half way there
Eighteen is not far.
I want to stop time
and keep things as they are.
No, I want to go back
to the day she was born
so that I can redo
all the things that I mourn.
I want to remember
to make her feel loved
so when six more were born
she didn't feel shoved.
She's done so much in such a short time. I put too much on her. Unintentional crime.
She stands so tall now,
so clumsy an age.
But beauty still shines
through the awkward stage.
A leader, a nurturer,
loved by her peers.
But at home she is taunted,
reduced to tears.
Brothers who hit her.
She cries in her room.
I'm saddened,
wishing her back in my womb.
Can't change the past.
Must focus on now.
Must make up for things
though I don't know how.
Nine years I've wasted.
But nine more of chances.
to play dolls, talk with her,
dance silly dances.
Her innocence,
I know, must be preserved.
I'll give her the childhood
she's always deserved.
Happy early birthday my sweet Marlie!

Time To Spare

"What do you do in your spare time?"

I go to Starbucks and get a buzz
I speed in my car, eluding "The Fuzz"
I dance until my legs fall off
I watch reruns of Hasselhoff
I eat bon bons by the dozen
I chat for hours with my cousin
I paint my toe nails fiery red
I weed my over grown flower bed
I bake a million yummy cookies
I tutor mommies who are rookies
I shop until my feet are sore
I rest and then go back for more
I sip champagne in my tub
I have my masseuse give me a rub
I create an abstract painting
I exercise and end up fainting
I read murder mystery books
I write songs with catchy hooks
You ask me how it could be true,
that I do all the things I do.
I do all this without hesitation
in the realm of imagination.

Oversight

Today's blog post over at Seven Seeds is the inspiration for the following poem.

Hatred, voilence, disrespect

It's what our world comes to expect.

Why do we act as though we're blind

to the downfall of this human kind?

Parents don't take the time to give

the lessons their seeds need to live.

Survival is one thing, living another.

To live is to love your fellow brother.

Many think that survival skills are enough.

They teach their children to be tough.

What about a child's first school?

What about the Golden Rule?

Home is where love should be taught.

But I've seen evidence that it's not.

Maybe we need a wake up call

To make us see how far we fall.

A child's growth we too often fetter

in our persuit of bigger and better.

Yet many don't see the damage done

Until they look down at a hurting son.

We have one chance to mold the clay.

Too quickly childhood slips away.

My wish is that every parent

would once again, make love inherent.

The Lesson

Life is not perfect.
There are no guarantees.
We don't have directions
and aren't handed keys.

There are moments of joy
and times of elation.
Days that we mark
with sweet celebration.

But not every season
is one that we cherish.
There is sickness and sadness
and loved ones who perish.

We have a choice
to dwell on unpleasant,
or to learn from it all
and apply to the present.

The sorrow and joy,
the victory and strife
each play a part
in what we call "life."

Take pride in your journey.
It's to be commended.
There is still so much more.
Don't leave hope suspended.

Today is the day
to choose the right path,
Count all your blessings.
Do the right math.

Don't focus on things
that weigh the heart down.
Don't allow your woes
to let your joy drown.

Store up your memories
of all the great things.
Keep them at the ready
for the grief that life brings.

Have joyful memories
always in your mind's eye
to gaze upon
should fear and grief happen by.

This was a lesson
I needed to learn.
Now my task at hand
is to teach you, in turn.

My Inner Cry

There lurks a dismal shadow. It hovers over me.
It offers only fear and doubt to keep me company.
It matters not how fast I run, the cold of its presence follows.
It robs me of fulfillment and in its place, leaves hollows.
Uses subtle ways of convincing me of defeat.
Makes me dependent on a pill to feel complete.
"Leave!" I cry out in attempts to pry my weak soul free.
I look up to the only One capable of delivering me.
"Dad, I want to feel the warm sun on my soul again.
I have a vision for a tunnel with a bright light at the end.
I long to taste sweet contentment on my dry, parched tongue.
I yearn for peace upon my heart, just like when I was young.
Please Father, come! I need you now. I'm too feeble to win this fight.
The hold this darkness has on me is far too strong and tight.
I'm sorry I put all my faith in a manufactured pill.
I should have leaned on You instead, for a way to heal.

Quite Certain

One thing is for certain...
I'm intelligent, stupid,
Exciting, a bore.
Confident, unsteady
that's not all, there's more...
I'm driven and lazy.
Consistent, erratic.
I'm stable, a head case
mellow, dramatic.
I'm young and I'm old.
I'm wild and prude.
I'm peaceful, I'm angry.
Sometimes kind, sometimes rude.
Mysterious, obvious,
joyful and sad.
I'm dependable, flaky,
half angelic, half bad.
I'm tender. I'm harsh.
A loud mouth, a clam.
I'm certainly uncertain of who I am!

My First Little Boy

Zipping, Zooming
around the yard.
Tumbling, Bumbling
balance is hard.
Fighting, Raging
he's firey, you bet.
Discourse, Remorse
always full of regret.
Sparkling, Captivating
eyes like the ocean.
Sensitive, Demonstrative
undying devotion.
Powerful, Unmanageable
will not be restrained.
Serious, Furious
seeming so pained.
Innocent, Benevolent
aiming to please.
Acute, Astute
solves problems with ease.
Intricate, Delicate
brings me such joy.
Demure, Immature
my first little boy.

Incurable

Doctor, oh doctor!
What's wrong with me?
I'm tired,
I'm nauseous,
I'm as worried as can be!

My head throbs and my eyes blur.
My mind is a mess.
On top of it all,
I'm bogged down
with stress.

I can't sit, can't sleep
can't pay attention.
I can't remember anything
that I do, ask
or mention.

I'm nervous, frustrated
and anxious as well.
Have you heard of this?
Is it normal?
Does it ring a bell?

My back aches, my hair breaks
and it just looks so dull.
I wash, rinse
and repeat
but it never looks full.

I used to be pretty.
I used to smell good.
Now I'm ugly
and smell like
a rotting corpse should.

My legs have veins
that look like ropes.
My butt looks like
those big ski slopes.
I feel devoid of dreams and hopes.

I used to be able to do so much.
I used to laugh and have fun.
Now all I can do
is hope and pray
that I last until day is done.

Dark circles hang out under my eyes.
Wrinkles adorn my face.
What could be causing this?
What have I done?
Is this some rare bird flu case?

Please tell me, doc.
I can take it, I'm sure.
Is it mental, is it fatal?
Bacterial, or viral?
Is there even an affordable cure?

Doc looked at me
with a wrinkled white brow.
"You're ailment is common.
Most women contract it
and I'll tell you how.

The proper name
is Motherhood.
It's genetic and infectious.
It has lasting effects
both terrible and good.

It cannot be cured
while you still have breath.
The cure,
I must tell you,
only comes in death.

Fear not, Mrs. Prescott
This is the worst stage.
This Motherhood you've contracted
though painful and tough,
will only get better with age!"

I left the good doctor,
in a state of relief.
Despite my insanity
and broken down body
I feel better and have far less grief!