The life of a parent is nothing glamorous. Especially as a stay-at-home one. In the spirit of comedy, I have constructed this poem to show just how glamorous parenting is not.
I often refer to my children as my spawn—Spawn 1 and Spawn 2 (yes, that’s a Dr. Seuss influence).
Spawn of my womb, locks of fair gold,
why do you push your one finger
up your nostril after a snack?
Spawn of my womb, one from darkness,
must you insist on forcing cars
into the back of my ankles?
Spawn of my womb, carbon copy,
‘throw it away’ will never mean
chuck it outside through the window.
Oh, spawn of womb, stubborn tempered,
it’s time for bed. Why do you think
now is perfect sword-play time?
Spawn of myself, azure eyes bright,
did you not hear the slow and loud
uttering word telling you “no”?
To you, my spawn,
I am talking.
Can you not hear?
Spawn, oh dear spawn, tearer of flesh,
allow me sleep for five minutes
more than last morn from your unrest?
I hear you, spawn, waker of adults,
as your moaning mixes with haze
of earlier’s dream, let me just sleep?
Yes, spawn, my spawn, one of my flesh,
I feel your cup clash with my head
for the third time in four seconds.
Quiet, spawn of mine,
I hear your cries.
Did you want juice?
Go play with your sibling spawn
and just let me poop in peace.