All days he’s had a yogurt-propelling snotty nose
and scrambled egg squelched between tiny sweaty toes.
All of the screeches and screams
tacky teething gels and nappy rash creams
with all the go-to-fucking-sleep nights
the fatigued and frazzled baby-Father fights
and the live long days of exhaustion
your long lost independent lives
tantrums, and he-won’t-eat-his-bastard-food slights
and you never wanted children anyway.
But then there’s a moment
isolated, suspended in your slack off Sunday
where you see:
with just one goofy, gapped grin
the reflection in your next of kin
it’s what you were both foraging for
all the thirty plus years before
and the cut-throat love throttles you
like gobbling down a podgy gold watch
and you see:
for the first time this week
his chimp-like rump
his bitty belly portly and plump
his full force, warm and fed
seeking his soft, safe, mummy-made bed
the prosperity you’ve both had
plummets through the navy nursery floor
and you swear
you won’t take parenthood for granted anymore.
you were seen tonight.
Commended in the 2014 Mother’s Milk Books Writing Prize