two days

Leanne - on Jul. 2 2007
Really, there comes a time when mums should realise they've already fucked up your life quite enough thank you very much, and should retire quietly to a home by the sea where they can be Tom Jonesed out of their worn out minds.

I found a tin of condensed milk in my pantry the other day. It had expired four years ago. I didn't even know that stuff expired. Weird. But it definitely had -- it was that mustard colour that comes out of babies' bums at inopportune moments.

So, no caramel for me that day.

Julie - on Jul. 3 2007

hehe... let me tell you a story about baby poo. About a week after we brought home our first, I was "bathing" him on our dining room table (we lived in an apartment, so it was basically the kitchen table). In the middle of the "bath" (a misnomer when in reference to cleaning an infant, isn't it?), my little super pooper exploded from the rear and shot liquid yellow poo 6 feet, no joke! Unfortunately, I was in the way of the spray. Needless to say, I then needed a bath as well. Thank goodness I was wearing my glasses that day.

Now back on topic.

...

The "making dragons" part was most effective for me. It reminded me of a poem by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer :

The Play's the Thing

Forgive me, Lord,
for all the tasks
that went undone today.
But this morning when my child
toddled in and asked, "Mommy play?",
I simply had to say yes.
And between the puzzles and trucks
and blocks and dolls and old hats and
books and giggles,
we shared a thousand special thoughts,
a hundred hopes and dreams and hugs.
And tonight, when prayer time came
and he folded his hands and softly whispered,
"Thank you, God, for Mommy and Daddy and
toys and french fries, but 'specially
for Mommy playing,"
I knew it was a day well wasted.
And I knew you'd understand.

Anyhow, overall, this is something most of us can relate to (How my body aches for sleep as a deadline approaches!), but as a poem, it feels too rough, too much like a journal entry, to be effective yet.

Tracey - on Jul. 6 2007
This feels either like a journal entry (fine the way it is) or a poem that needs a bit o' editing. There's too much of "something" here. Sorry I'm not more articulate in this moment. Perhaps I shall be more so in the light of day. Thanks, Ms. Callooh!