I feel obliged to write you with my reasons,
though they wane and wax with time, there’s constancy,
nothing can surpass the words
if, even sleeping,
they drift and drone and beg, oh, please, choose me!
I shush them when, in real-life mode, I’m enacting
fulfillment of the roles I must obey,
I try to shun them, tell them, wheesht! I’m working
Do they listen? Not a word that I can say.
They tease, torment and test me with their pullings,
This way, that, o’er here, oh, Anne-Marie, please look at me.
Dismissal doesn’t work, I’ve tried, they never listen,
I jot them down for my posterity.
I’ll come to you, I say, when I have finished,
the workload that demands so much of my time,
I’ll hear you better when the pressure’s off me,
Like children, they just sulk then whine on constantly.
I must admit, I’d miss them if they left me,
They start my day and end it with their charm
And even though they tug, torment and taunt me,
They never really do me any harm.
I love them, they’re my children,
Add to seven,
the words that birth themselves and beg me, please,
feed me, fill me, love me, never leave me.
I resign myself to mother of all these.
You’ve got to love this place. Even when I’m ignoring it as much as I can to do what I have to, it sneaks in. Checking through a bunch of emails that I’m also trying to ignore till I’ve, at least, wrapped the feckin’ presents, I come across this one, leading to this one that takes me back to this one and spawns this one.
I can be accused of many things – a tendency to leaving things to the last minute being chiefly noticeable at this particular time – next year I’ll start in September, like some of the folks in my school. Who wraps Christmas presents in October? Does this mean that they have Easter sorted too? Booked their summer holiday?
I seem to remember that my essays always got in on time. But usually after an all-nighter. Each to their own comes to mind. But this might be why I’m still shopping, haven’t wrapped a single present other than the lucky dip for school, will hit some stores tomorrow, god-help-me, and enlist the help of my fourteen-year-old wrapping elf.
I can’t, however, be accused of being short on words – check my posts. Haiku? I wish. I’m missing my writing time so badly that I’m dreaming the bloody words again. Noted for future reference. Driving to work has become a memory test. Repeat, repeat, repeat till I can note.
Ain’t it great though, that words demand of us? That’s kind of what Charles was talking about, I think. It’s like words are truly born – and I know what that’s like! Including one emergency caesarian with the last. Some are easy, some not so much so, some require intervention. But, after the birth, you look and say, I know you. I’ve always known you.
My kids – my real babes – are sorted for Christmas. I just have to make sure to take time to tend to the ones that keep on crying. Love takes many forms.
Merry Christmas all you lovely folk. I may be back before you know it. Or I might be burning the venison, cursing the carols (don’t you just get sick of the same ones?!)
Feck it! When my crew are all sated, from too much of me, I’ll be loving my orphans.
Won’t we all! Mothers and fathers to words.
Your words are a gift. I thank you for them.
They’re also your gift to yourself. Open them every day.
Words are made flesh and live among us.
scottishmomus 