It’s Great to be a Mum

Hardly cool, calm and collected,
Nails, bikini line neglected.
House, I’m certain, is not as clean as some.
Wet washing there for days,
And our beds remain unmade.
Despite my fails, it’s great to be a mum.

My social life revolves,
Around a 6 and 3-year-old.
Nights out have disappeared to almost none.
Cannot wait to catch the gig,
Of the real live Peppa Pig.
Hell yeah, it’s one-long-party as a mum.

My partner may well think,
That my life is rosy pink.
He’ll imply mum days are chat, tea, cakes and fun.
But you know that’s just survival,
You need mummy friends not rivals.
Let’s hug it out, it’s fab to be a mum.

The bruises, pinches, pulling hair,
The “I hate yous” and “you’re unfair”.
There are some days you’ll feel a little glum.
Food lovingly you’ve made,
At which they merely look dismayed.
But, ha, it is so swell to be a mum.

Stress, exhaustion and the mess,
Gets too much I can confess.
Days spent mopping sick and wiping countless bums.
Being ill with kids is rotten,
Chance of duvet days forgotten.
Who cares? It’s so rewarding as a mum.

Mislaid the art of conversation,
Friends have lowered expectations.
Stick sword, lightsaber fights I’ve lost and won.
Embracing every wee,
Spent with them all joining me.
At least you’re never lonely as a mum.

Their energy is off the scale,
Soft play noise makes me go pale.
Each day up with the larks, before the sun.
Now, if I could train those birds,
to do all of my housework,
It would be a fairytale to be a mum.

Belly laughs until it hurts,
Bounds of joy, then go berserk.
In opposite directions they all run.
At least you are so tired,
In a job; you can’t be fired.
It’s proof of all the fun times as a mum.

Spending nights admiring pics,
Of your cheeky dudes and chicks.
Hard work, but who could ask for better ones?
In the face of frazzled looks,
And those dusty advice books.
You’re doing great, keep at it super mum.

© Pass Me The Valium and, 2016.


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.

© Pass Me The Valium and, 2016.