I was quite “Trendy” . . . once!

Trendy colourWith a baby and a three year old, I found it almost impossible to get out of the door looking anywhere as near polished as I used to. In fact, some days, I really did resemble someone who had been sleeping rough for a few nights. I couldn’t understand how some women could turn up with four or five children and look as if they had just walked out of a beauty salon. I wrote this poem on a particularly bad day when a large part of me was grieving the pre-baby me.

Trendy colourI’m shaved and I’m plucked and it’s going to be whiz

For my wicked hot date, I’ll be looking the ‘biz’

My dress is quite trendy, no wrinkles or tears

I’m in my high heels so I hope there’s no stairs . . .

Trendy colourClothes on and clothes off, dumped here and dumped there

“The outfits aren’t perfect!” I cry in despair

My toe nails are painted a glittery blue

I’m sequined and sparkly, scrubbed shiny and new

Trendy colourMy undies are white and not faded to grey

My perfume is smelling most strongly today

I smile and I joke and I want to entrance

I wiggle and pout as I sexily dance

Trendy colourI flatter and flitter, the magic is true

The mystery woman, I’m being for you

It’s hazy and dreamy; we smile the night through

The rose tinted glasses, for me and for you

Trendy colourSo all of that preening just look where it led

A walk down the aisle and two children in bed

My legs are all stubbly, and underarms black

Make-up forgotten, my waist has grown back

Trendy colourMy brown hairs are hidden as grey takes a hold

My make-up has cobwebs, I’m feeling so old

My toe nails are ragged, a natural shade

My eyebrows defined by a bushy tirade

Trendy colourMy faded old leggings have gone at the knee

My socks do not match, I don’t recognise me

The ‘charm’ I exuded, has faded to ‘nag’

I argue, I snap, I’m a grumpy old bag

Trendy colourEveryone’s younger and prettier too

Showing their cleavage and flat tummies – boo!

The stretch marks and sags, oh reality stinks!

Who knows what my husband and other folk think

Trendy colourI’m weighed down with shopping and nappies and strain

My loafers are smelly, I’m no longer vain

Catch sight of a person, so dowdy and drawn

With two trailing children, who both look forlorn

Trendy colourI stand back in horror, it JUST cannot be

The mocking reflection I’ve spotted is: ‘ME’

How CAN this have happened? I’m buried below

I’m knocking to let out the ‘me’ that I know

Trendy colourSo I pluck and I bleach and I try to revamp

My body won’t listen; I feel like a tramp

The sick on my shoulder, my bag weighs a ton

A child at each ankle, before I’ve begun

Trendy colourA touch of some make-up, my hair back to brown

Legs, which are smooth and a smile, not a frown

I start to feel human, but not as before

A neat kind of mother, a classy ‘mature’ . . .

                                                                                                                       . . . I wish!

 © Nicky Clifford, 2001

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