With 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.
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 . . .
“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
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
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
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
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
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
Showing their cleavage and flat tummies – boo!
The stretch marks and sags, oh reality stinks!
Who knows what my husband and other folk think
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
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
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
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