Double Trouble

Double trouble, wail and squabble.
Sibling love? Soon burst that bubble.
Bicker, tussle, wrestle and bite.
A pinch, a scratch, a bump, a fight.

I wonder will this ever end?
Brothers in arms, they’ll be best friends?
Sniggers, giggles, hugs and high fives,
Give me hope we will all survive.

No, a swipe, the glimmer is gone.
Tears and screams and faces forlorn.
Niggle, quibble, grapple and groan.
A punch, a scrap, a growl, a moan.

“You’re winding me up, I hate you”.
“Get out of my space, stinky poo!”
War, destruction, pure cheek and strife.
Double trouble, comrades for life.

Ten Tired Mummies: A Parody

Ten tired mummies, struggling to see,
How to cope till bedtime, with their sanity.

Can they keep their cool and smiles throughout the day?
Ten tired mummies thinking positive, “yaaaaaaaaay!”

Ten tired mummies actually not feeling fine,
Thank goodness, a playgroup, now there are nine.

Nine tired mummies are always running late,
A toddler tantrum kicks off, now there are eight.

Eight tired mummies, looking up to heaven,
Great, bird poo down a top, now there’s only seven.

Seven tired mummies, need a caffeine fix,
“Latte?” asks Barista, now there are six.

Six tired mummies, it’s lunchtime they’ve survived,
Watch out! Projectile vom, now there’s only five.

Five tired mummies, pacing up and down the floor,
“You really think I’m going to nap?”, now there’s only four.

Four tired mummies, passing A&E,
Damn zip wire in the park, now there’s only three.

Three tired mummies, wondering what to do,
Quick, head for soft play, now there’s only two.

Two tired mummies, feeling totally out-done,
One discovers Pinterest so now there’s only one.

One tired mummy with patience wearing thin,
Frazzled, creased and broken, searching for the gin.

Witching hour begins, kids wrestle on the floor,
Mummy friends save the day by bursting through the door.

Drinking booze from sippy cups, in the safety zone,
Keep each other laughing, reassured they’re not alone.

He’s fast,
He’s brave,
He’s bold and he’s proud.
No volume control,
He’s so blooming loud.

He’s fearless,
He’s kind,
A bit full-on in parts.
He’s exhausting,
He’s funny,
And sure to break hearts.

Passion runs through him,
Lives life to the full.
One thing’s for certain,
It never gets dull.

“He’ll be someone”.
“He’ll break the rules”
“He’s sure to change the world”.
Great prophecies,
I’m reliably told.

Challenging,
Rewarding,
Outrageous little man.
He’s the spirted one,
And I’m his biggest fan.

Overwhelmed, or so I thought, during the Ninja years,
The baby rollercoaster ride of love and tears and fears.

But I must have had my sh*t together, I actually had the time,
To catergorise my photos, album folders line-by-line.

My computer’s super organised, he’s captured month-by-month,
I even did a photobook, of smiles, of hugs, the bunch.

But year 3 grinded to a hault, Honeybadger had arrived,
Two is proper chaos, “I get nothing done” I cried.

The photos aren’t so organised – one folder for the lot,
No photobooks, no details, I’d clearly lost the plot.

Poor neglected Pickle doesn’t even have a folder,
I repeat: “I’ll have the time, the minute she gets older”.

Clay cast hand and footprints also demonstrate this all,
9-week Ninja’s nicely framed, and hung upon his wall.

9 months old and Honeybadger’s were finally put up,
16 months for Pickle and she’s still not had that luck!

She does have hand and footprints, up there for all to see,
But thanks to the creations of her little nursery.

Scientists, tell me, what’s the child ratio for chaos?
It seems the more of them I have, the less I feel the boss.

The rollercoaster’s crazy, bonkers, fun, and off the rails,
Can’t think straight. Can’t sit down. Organised Mummy fails.