Tag Archives: poem about a baby

Lactose Intolerant

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Lactose Intolerant

If you’re intent on becoming maternal,
I’m hopeful your plans include turning nocturnal.
For babies claim most of your time, night and day,
but their favorite time to entice you to play
is when you have finally  collapsed in a heap
and obtained REM sleep, so blessedly deep
that you swim towards the surface with collections of dreams
that shed off you like water as you waken to screams
of your recent dependent who’s hungry and wet,
needing all the attention that there is to get.
Since you went through the nausea and gained all the girth,
acquired all the stretch marks and endured the birth,
though you love this dear bundle with skin smooth as silk,
how you wish that their father could provide the milk!
Yet you search for your robe and for your other shoe,
for that wholesome nutrition provider is you!

Prompt words today are hopeful, claim, nocturnal, wholesome and collection. Image by Jenna Norman on Unsplash.

 

 

 

 

New Baby Blues

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New Baby Blues

I rue the day my mom acquired my new baby brother.
I wish that she’d return him and come back with another.
When I first saw him, he was cute and I was rather proud,
but that’s before I knew the fact that he would be so loud.

When he cries, he makes a sort of ear-splitting sharp bleating
all the time Mom’s in the kitchen seeing to the heating
of the bottle used to apportion out his dinner.
You’d think for all the fuss he makes that he was growing thinner,

Yet I swear that day-by-day, to my great disgust
that he’s growing bigger—fatter and more robust!
And when he isn’t sleeping or drinking or deranged,
he is damp or poopie and insisting to be changed.

I think this baby’s broken and I think we need a new one.
I asked if I could go along when they go to view one,
but Mommy says there’s no return because this one is used,
while Daddy uttered not a word—just stood looking amused.

It really isn’t funny, though. In fact, I’m most annoyed
that they have less time for me now that they’re employed
taking care of baby—making sure he’s fed and well
while all this time I’ve been here too, living in baby Hell!

He’s diapered, held and cuddled, sung to and adored
while his older sister sits here feeling bored.
They say that I’ll feel different once he’s more grown up,
but if it were up to me, I’d trade him for a pup!

 

Prompt words today are proud, heating, apportion, damp and rue.

First Child

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First Child

When it comes to good midwivery,
for sure, ease in delivery
is ranked high on performance scale.
But nonetheless, the baby’s wail
creates a pleasure so insane
that it wipes out mom’s earlier pain.

Folks question dad’s sobriety
judging from the variety 
of gifts he brings for wife and son.
A rolling pin? A bee bee gun?
A negligee? A fishing pole?
A cowboy hat? A casserole?

When he ran out of gifts to buy,
his philanthropy then went awry.
He bought the hospital a broom
purely for use within their room
lest dust and dirt from other places
land upon his loved-ones’ faces.

Once home, their baby care routine
was like a well-oiled machine
that wove through bike and hobby horse––
a toy department obstacle course.
If it’s true that chaos has its beauty,
then this young dad had done his duty

in spreading beauty wherewithin
it’s probable you’ll bark your shin
or hit your head or stub your toe––
on toys piled everywhere you go.
If you looked closely, then just maybe
you might be able to locate baby.

Stocked for life, he’s unaware
of all the loot piled in his lair.
He’s content if he is changed
and fed and cuddled, rearranged
and left to sleep the day away.
He will not see his daddy play

with all the toys he wished that he
had to play with when he was three
and  five and eight and seventeen,
when kids weren’t heard, but only seen.
Back then, it’s true, he had his pick.
His ball a stone, his bat a stick.

 

Prompt words today are variety, delivery, switch, philanthropy,  beauty in chaos.

 

Advice for Novice Parents

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Advice for Novice Parents

You’re supporting and loving. Efficient? Well, maybe.
Most times you can locate that elusive baby.
You’re parents with character—sometimes too much of it.
(A quirk functions better with only a touch of it.)
When you pause in your diapering for a martini,
your baby may wage a protest with his weenie.
Better you party when parenting’s done
so baby’s not there to dampen your fun!

 

Prompt words today are pause, character, supporting, elusive and  baby.

Last Small Gift

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Last Small Gift
for Zackie, 1982-1984

He always noticed high things––
airplanes, kites.
His long fingers
pointed to small things,
moving things, things that needed to be eaten,
people who should leave the room.

He gave second chances.
Even after I bit his finger
along with the cookie he offered as a token of friendship,
and even after the stout and lengthy 
cry of outrage in his mother’s arms,
in two or more additional meetings,
he was willing to start over again,
this time from the middle,
at becoming friends.

He never held out his arms to me.
He never cried when I left the room.
Yet he shared with me,
along with a glimpse of a heart that could still break,
all of the pleasures first experienced
which I had once felt,
and some long glances where neither looked away.

Usually,  I felt that in between his own needs
he knew everything there was to know about me,
this wise baby,
so that when he rejected me,
I knew it was for good reason.
And when he accepted me,
I felt I’d gained character.
Maybe I found it irresistible
that I had to earn his allegiance,
so that I felt flattered by it—
like the first girl chosen from the bench at a dance.

This baby
that I never knew well enough.
This baby who never noticed the toys I brought him.
This baby who reigned
from the corner of my sofa
under his pointed birthday hat,
never learned to say my name.

But he held something old for me in his eyes.
Promises, perhaps,
that some of the mysteries are left in a life
where most of the presents have been opened,
revealing objects less precious
than the surprises they came wrapped up in.

 

For dVerse Poets Open Link Night

What’s Wrong with Your Mom?

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Screen Shot 2019-02-27 at 10.31.05 AM

What’s Wrong with Your Mom?

My husband’s language is so curt that lately I’ve been wondering
if these moody epithets that he has been thundering
have anything at all to do with my consistent blundering.

Ashtrays in the ice box and ice cubes in a puddle
on the shelf where glasses go? I fear I’m in a muddle.
I see him with the children, over there in a big huddle.

Now and then, they look at me. I think they are suspicious.
It’s me they are discussing, and their looks are not auspicious.
But still they feel that questioning me would not be judicious.

Why don’t they remember that  I’ve been this way before
exactly three times in the past, and this is number four?
By now I am surprised it hasn’t become family lore

that mother always gets this way during a certain time
when thinking gets confusing and moods turn on a dime,
but in the end it’s worth it as the outcome is sublime!

It seems I cannot  count on them to interpret the clues,
so I think that it is time that I give them all the news
that will solve the puzzle and resolve Daddy’s blues.

They see me coming towards them and it looks like they might scatter,
but they realign their faces as though nothing is the matter
until they hear these words that I contribute to their chatter:

“The secret that I’ve kept from you is worrying as a blister.
This surprise that I’m carrying might be our first young mister,
although I know you would not mind if it were a fourth sister!”

 

Prompt words today are language, puddle, auspicious and wondering. Here are the links:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/02/27/rdp-wednesday-language/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/02/27/fowc-with-fandango-puddle/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/02/27/your-daily-word-prompt-auspicious-february-27-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/02/27/wondering/

New Father: Dec 3, 2018

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New Father

He imagines well the cradle and a new mother bending
over the small infant that she would be tending.
The baby’s arms reached up, his young wife’s arms extending
out to lift it up, so tender in their fending.
The eager father wending
home from his day of vending,
his yearned-for entrance pending,
each mile closer mending
their separation’s rending,
more satisfaction lending
toward their  happy ending.

 

Up at 5 to catch a plane to Acupulco. The prompt was “pending”

https://fivedotoh.com/2018/12/03/fowc-with-fandango-pending/