Written by Sherri Mills
The perils of being a mother, are equal to not any other.
For granted she’s taken,
And often mistaken,
for a robot, “she’ll do it, why bother?”
I’ll give you a vague estimation of what one day’s like at her station.
The deeds of great fame,
aren’t always the same,
but she’s sure to get all of her ration.
A mom has a time clock she punches. Breakfast dishes done, oops, time for lunches.
From eight to twelve, hey, all her time’s slipped away,
now she’s got to find out what that crunch is.
That’s probably why nothing gets done, her off-springs keep her on the run.
She starts with the dishes, then every child’s wishes,
comes out in the voice of just one.
As mom is changing the baby, the other kids their thinking, “Maybe,
she’ll be busy a while.”
To each other they smile.
Then she hears one kid holler, “DON’T SPRAY ME!”
It takes her a while to turn loose, the one who’s been knick-named caboose.
When she gets on the scene,
one is dripping, but clean,
and the other one has an excuse.
All mothers know the excuses, it’s the same one that every child uses.
He changes the name, but the stories’ the same
And the other kid that he accuses.
They are ordered to march in the house, sit down and be still as a mouse.
They both say they’ll try,
then they both start to cry,
and mom, well, she feels like a louse.
She at once feels the loss of esteem,
and now—-WHO WAS THAT SHE HEARD SCREAM?
The baby climbed up, on the sink with a cup,
and it’s broken to bits, it would seem.
As she gets the tot down the phone rings,
at that moment she feels she needs wings.
By the sink she will stay, ‘til she knows all’s OK,
and to heck with the phone and such things.
As the glass is all cleaned away, and she’s sure that the baby’s OK
In her mind comes a flash!
Then she makes a mad dash.
Yep! The dishwater’s running astray.
She takes that brief moment to swear, and proceeds to pull out her hair.
Then she feels like a dope,
and she snarl’s “I CAN COPE.”
But she secretly thinks “IT’S NOT FAIR!”
Her duties are started again, with the hope that she’s got at least ten
minutes to get things done,
and there’s not even one.
Its’ lunch time ol mother hen.
She hopes as she smiles forcibly, after getting son out of yon tree.
They will eat with no fuss,
and a little less muss,
than the normal day turns out to be.
The lunch turns up half on the floor,
and they turned up their noses like before.
As usual, she fixed it—and as usual they nixed it,
And then in an hour they want more.
She tells them to wait until dinner. She’s strong but they still try to win her.
From lunch until sup—-she’s about to give up
And it’s her who ends up getting thinner.
At this point her one defense comes,
cause in order to deal with her tensions,
as much as she’ll hate it, and she will try to outwait it.
She just turns off all sounds and dimensions.
At the moment, this helps quite a bit, but meanwhile the kids don’t just sit.
They run hear and there,
and do all they dare,
which means a catastrophe has hit.
After supper she wails to her spouse,
“I’VE GOT TO GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE.
I THINK YOU WILL FIND, THAT I’M LOSING MY MIND,
AND YES! THIS IS BLOOD ON MY BLOUSE!”
Then hubby starts pulling his rank, and say’s, “Dear, I’ll be truly frank.
When the children don’t mind,
I’m sure you might find,
that it might be because you’re a crank.
Now—-as for you losing your mind, that’s silly, sit down and unwind.
It’s not quite as bad,
as it seems, just be glad,
You don’t have to put up with my grind.
If you did, would you ever get tough,
So you think that you’ve got it rough,
Staying home all day, with the kids, BY THE WAY,
COULD YOU PLEASE KEEP THEM OUT OF MY STUFF?
HEY KEEP THAT KID QUET IN THERE,
AND GET THIS ONE OUT OF MY HAIR.
THEY NEED A GOOD WHACKIN, YOUR DISCIPLINE IS LACKIN,
I THINK I’LL GO GET ME SOME AIR.”
As the door shuts in tired mama’s face, she continues to keep up her pace.
Her man’s work is through,
she still has hers to do,
and still hasn’t got to first base.