I Hate Being the Mother

My kids are too old to be forced into summer camps, but too young to fend for themselves. Time for a little levity.

I Hate Being the Mother

The smother, the bother
the nag,
rag, sag, drag.
I want to be the big brother
home from college tossing the football,
tousle of the head, wrestling and whoops
want to be the little sister curled in a lap,
fawned over before her nap,
older fashionable cousin
upstairs trading manicures giggling,
want to have the trip at the mall
with arms linked,
not walking ten paces behind slink.

I want to be the funny uncle
blowing smoke ring circles,
kids circling around him,
the hot uncle with the tennis tan
who makes the girls' insides whisper,
not the one serving the ice tea,
sweeping aside the litter.
I want to be the one they spill their secrets to,
not the will, the boss,
not always presenting the because,
and clear your plate, don’t stay up too late,
get off the computer.

I want to be the commuter,
on the six am train,
home in twelve hours, tucking them in
big hero home.

I want to be a giraffe mum
with leggy offspring born to run,
an egg layer swimming off
with a final flick and scoff.
I want a Joey secure in my pouch
not impeding,
not these years of needing.
I would even take human children-
but only a century ago,
little farm hands who can’t wait to
run off to the crick,
not these takers, these soft cakers
who protest my go outside
as if it was a prison term.
They’d plant and milk,
say please and thank you Ma'am,
smooth as corn silk,
the rod and Old Testament
would do my bidding.
It is only the second week
of summer vacation and about the above,
so over mandatory meddling,
I am not kidding.