No Office No Doughnuts

No office, no demonic plates of doughnuts that reach up
From mahogany meeting tables to force my hand and ruin my lunch
Ah, but doughnut freedom proves fleeting, for now the kitchen closet candy has found its voice
I'm at home, but weak all the same. The alto of Snickers is loud and the meek voice in my head
Croaks weakly, no, not another hunk of candy, points out the holly-jolly jiggle at my center
No co-conspirators, just me locked in a pathetic struggle over another chocolate break

No office, no half-assed shower at a downtown gym during lunch break
Frankly, not a whole lot of showering period. No one to impress, no longer coated in spit-up
Should I even bother? There’s always a chance that later on I’ll make it to the rec center
Squeeze in a quick stomp on a stairmaster to compensate for what happened again at lunch
Forced to consume peanut-butter crusts, extra chips, leftover pudding. Surely I will head
To the gym tomorrow if I don’t succeed at silencing this infernal internal voice

No office, no endless lineup of meaningless meetings everyone competing to get his voice
Heard while I calculate whether there is time enough for a quick breast pump break
To cower in a supply closet, guarding precious drops and hoping my head
Doesn’t get slammed by a spare ream of paper. Not anymore. No pressing need to button up
“Like Club Med on crack,” my husband muttered, when home for a brief lunch
He encountered this scene: shirtless babes, house a-wreck, a screaming nude (me) at its center

No office, no coworkers digging crampons into my nylons as they claw for the center
Of pinstriped attention. Nowadays the ladders aren’t figurative but plastic and my child's voice
Calls from the tippy-top, she perches, prepared to drop. On the ground I'm still unpacking lunch
While that damn alpha-mommy, lacy thong up her back strides to the top without a break
Without damage to hair or makeup or superiority complex. I watch, below, as she clamors up
to save my kid. I sit, judged, negligent, thong-free. Thong-mom shakes her disapproving head

No office, no blissful cup of quiet to transition my foggy morning head
No solitary jaunts to the bathroom. No flirting with the new guy at the copy center
No happy hours with cheap drinks and bad food and time with friends to play catch-up
No commute, no isolation within public chaos. No grimace for that guy with the loud cell voice
No cute suits, no new dresses for a presentation I won’t prepare for during a quick break
No glass of cabernet with an expense-account lunch

No office, no paycheck to validate my worth. I’m judged on the neatness of triangles at lunch
I’m crowded by small bodies snuggled in bed, not inconsiderate travelers’ elbows to my head
I receive hugs as daily reviews, especially when I wield glue lest something break
I get no sick days no vacation no validation and yet still, at the core at my very center
I am home. I have made my choice. And though some days I feel crazy and my voice
Shrieks STOP STOP STOP… don’t be fooled. I won’t negotiate. I would never give this up

So pour out milk for my coffee break, and grill up cheese for my lunch
It won’t be long before she grows up, so let me plant kisses on her sleeping head
I relish her position at the center of my world. I delight in the surprises in her voice

Dear Mom

It’s been a while since I’ve been such a creep, but still, Mom
I feel I must beg forgiveness: I am so sorry
It seems in fact that you weren’t so dumb after all
It may even be that it was me with the problem
And not (as it so clearly seemed) you. You, who appeared not to understand
You, (who I felt) lacked even the basics of what was required to support my smart

(Sorry) ass. The wisdom of the years demands an apology. That and a couple smart-
Mouthed daughters of my own. Somehow merely becoming their mom
Has rendered me incompetent. Stupid. I’ve been stripped of any ability to understand
Anything. Oh my daughters I am truly sorry
That you have to put up with my inanity. What a burden, this problem
For your small brave shoulders. Dare I point out all

The perks you enjoy, thanks to my meager existence? Do you have any idea at all
What it means to be warm? To be fed? To be sent to school so you can be this smart?
Lucky brats, perhaps you have too much. Do you think that may be the real problem?
I for one would not dare act this way to my own dear Mom
(Shhh, for this small white lie I am sorry
It’s for the greater good. I am trying to make a point, you understand)

Did I mention, Mom, how very badly I feel? Now that I truly understand
What I put you through. Now that I have experienced firsthand all
That eye-rolling has to offer. For these things and so much more I am sorry:
For hands on hips and eyes rolled skyward. For talking back and those smart-
Ass comments I thought so witty. On bended knee I come to you Mom
For you see, I have a little problem

At least, I hope it’s little. I wish to contain it before it explodes, becomes a PROBLEM
That I cannot deal with. See, I do not understand
What kept you from smacking those self-righteous smirks from my face. And Mom?
How did you manage to hold your tongue at my bold conceit? How did you keep it all
Together as time and again I pronounced You: Idiot, Me: Smart
I am so sorry

I know I caused you grief, and that a simple sorry
May not cut it. So I have a deal, a solution to our little problem
I think you’ll agree that it is quite smart
You wished upon me a curse, daughters just like me, and I understand
I do, but now I’m here to bargain. What if I were to take it all
Back? Present you with two lovely granddaughters? Take them, and spoil away, Mom.

For you see, they are smart and witty. What better way to say I’m sorry
To you, dear Mom-turned-Grandma. There, there’s not really a problem
At all. Just a couple of little wonders. I knew that Grandma would understand

Housework is Just No Fun

Periodically something strikes me, and as I look around the house
I am gripped, not by mood or inclination but by nasty claws: Dust
Monsters! They reach out from beneath my bed. I could swipe at them with a tissue, true
This is how I handle many a mess. It’s not as though I do not care
That the toaster crumbs are on fire and the bathroom needs
Hell, it need to be declared off limits. I don’t want to alarm you yet I must confess

That the tub has developed a delightful yellow glow around its edge. I confess
That tumbleweeds of tangled hair roam like angry cowboys around the house
Picking fights with wrinkled laundry while naked beds shiver neglected, but mama needs
A break. Fifteen minutes to plop up my feet and let my ankles carve dust
Angels into the coffee table. Don’t I sound cavalier? I haven’t a care
In the world. Come and sit with me, have a bonbon, listen. My tale is familiar and true

I opted out of office life to watch kids and write. I’m a lucky lady it’s true
The part I hadn’t considered, the piece of it that I confess
Turns my stomach as it turns my white panties pink is this: I’m really expected to care
About crap like oven cleaners and disinfecting bubbles? Lemon scented? Not my house
But I take full blame. Woe is me for I am weak against an opponent as insidious as dust
Lurking, hovering, smothering my paltry attempts for I do try. I heard that a child needs

A well-scrubbed environment. Antibacterial triumph hurrah! Or not. My hero said a child needs
Exposure to filth to build character and bulk up immunity. Ok, maybe that’s not entirely true
But (vindication!) the report did come down on the side of dust.
Oh, since you’re still here, I have another self-serving tidbit to confess:
I get anxious in that woman’s house
You know, the Stepford one with no dust and nary a book out of place? How can she care

So much? I know, she must not live life as fully as I. She must not care
About things that really matter. For surely a house needs
To be a disaster if the family is having a rollicking old time. A house
Remains a house if its sparkling clean. Isn’t it true
That only when draped in the colorful cast-offs of life does a house become a Home? Confess
It, you’ll feel better. There’s something homey and sweet about all my dust

Oh come on, don’t look so concerned my friend. I will sweep the dust
Under the table when you stop by unannounced. Who me? Care?
Oh no not at all. I’m delighted to see you. But alas let me confess
That the maid has been ill. The chef’s out of town. And the lawn sorely needs
Professional attention. You know how hard it is to get good help. Sad but true
It does take a village to render presentable this old house

What else dare I confess, with all my dirty secrets spelled out in the dust?
It’s my mess, my house, so really I don’t know why you even care
It will get done if it really needs to. Really, I swear that much is true.