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.
I’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 . . .
Clothes 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
My 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
I 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
So 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
My 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
My 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
Everyone’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
I’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
I 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
So 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
A 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