The chilly cup of tea that Mummy didn’t get to drink,
The crusty weaning spoons that never made it to the sink,
The crumbs of mud from welly boots that got walked right off the mat,
The mouse’s gizzard: a present from the cat.
The towering pile of laundry spilling out of every basket
That no-one but Mummy puts away unless she asks it.
The myriad scattered onesomes of tiny baby socks,
The tattered remains of a fought-over giant box.
Beds: unmade
Toys: much-played
Floors: unswept
And Mummy wept.
But what is this house if not to live?
We give them life and give and give:
A home where a family sleeps and plays
And spends the hours of many days
Learning from each other in ways
That never ceases to amaze.
And day is done and nighttime creeps,
And finally, thankfully, every fucker finally sleeps,
You realise the work you’ve done
Is never over: just begun.
But the value’s not in hoovered floors,
Or uncluttered stairs or tidy drawers.
But in the strength of children raised
Of milestones marked and achievements praised.
And the only reward that’s worth a damn
Is to see your son grow to a man.
And watch the life unfold before her
Of your much-beloved daughter.
And this silly rhyme I tried to write,
The whingeing of a mother’s plight,
Turns into something more profound,
As in some chocolate my sorrows drowned
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