D1’s birthday just goes on and on. Today she had a family party with the family presents and Aunt K, more cake, and “Surprise! Grandma and Grumpy got you your very own Karaoke Machine and Grandma tried to Convince Mommy that it was Just a Fancy Cd Player. With a Microphone.”
It’s weathering outside. Snow, wind, cold. It’s dark and gloomy and a little spooky, and I love it. I’d write a ghost poem, but it is my D1’s true day of birth, and that seems jinx-y. Mom superstitions. How long has it been since I’ve written about ghosts, I wonder? It’s been a haunting year.
Actually, I think Mom-ing is a lot like being haunted. I’m going to poem that, and then I’ll try to move along. Kid poems can only get you so far before they become somewhat cheap. Tonight, though, it is late and I just want to write a little parenting poem and talk to HP and then go do prep all day tomorrow.
A Haunted Year
Of worst case scenarios come in arresting visions of future disasters, little tragedies complete with technicolor and surround sound. A haunted year with imaginary fires, drownings, rock slides, car crashes, epidemic and apocalyptic bunker-builder type visitings, in the midday, at lunch, an imagined choking, of course. Or in the first dim morning, hours before the alarm, just a feeling of utter dread, with no visions attached, just bonechill and terror at all the accidents and darkness. Sometimes it comes at midnight when she does the haunting, on pointe, into the room, and she stares at them until she hears the breath over the sound of the bathroom fan. It’s the breath of our children that haunts us.
Neurotic mom poem. Nothing new. But, I had a hard time starting tonight. My mind is kinda mushy. I’m tired, and we need a new bed and a nanny. Happy Monday. Thanks for reading my sappy parenting poems.