an almost-Christmas poem
Twas the week before christmas, deep hours of the night
and Mama was riding the exercise bike.
She'd fallen asleep with the children at seven
and there went her sewing time shot straight to heaven.
Then one in the morning she woke with a fret
to the four-year-old screaming "Maaamaaaa! I'm all wet!"
Quick off with his PJs, quick change all the sheets
quick cuddle two shaken boys safe back to sleep.
And then in her head there arose such a clatter
to out-shout the stress of a child's active bladder.
What presents are finished? What still to be made?
Do you have enough thread for the doll's coat's brocade?
How long will the knitting take? How long the baking?
How much are you counting on children not waking?
And what shall they eat while you fill their gift sacks?
Yes, what are you serving for dinner and snacks?
So down from her bedroom she floated etherial
to pour almond milk in a bowl of cold cereal
and try to set goals for the upcoming day
all while biking a few stress-made hormones away.
And as Mama sat cycling she thought of the reason
why Mamas work so flipping hard all this season.
She thought of her children in (pee-smelling) beds
while visions of wrapped presents danced their heads:
The sweaters with bunnies in colors they favor,
the candy like that which we gave to the neighbor,
The robot they asked for in felt that is washable
because they still believe her that ANYTHING'S POSSIBLE!
They still think that Mama makes all things from nothing
that all good things come from some felt, fleece, and stuffing
that whatever they think of, whatever they need,
they can get if they help, choose fabric, and plead.
So she gets off the bike, puts the dishes away
knits a few rows of sleeve to keep worries at bay,
And she prays in her head as she turns out the light:
"Happy Christmas to all! And to Mamas, sleep tight!"
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