Kiss the Cook

Kiss me, for it seems somehow that I am the cook
Which is not a chore, actually, when we’re together
Little fingers dipping in, offering help
That’s not help, but giggling, tasting, smearing chocolate across devilish faces
Here I am. Not where I was supposed to be, according to The Plan.
I am tired.

It’s shocking to find that it’s me in charge. Me with kids who never grow tired
My eyes sag, my legs drag, and still each night there is dinner to cook
And laundry to do, and errands to run, regardless of how I plan
They laugh in the mundane aisles. Happy to be together
The eternal ins and outs that burden my days brighten their faces
Their smiles shame me, remind me to be satisfied. I need help

I never imagined this, forever in the kitchen, two pixies eager to help
Long days of menial chores and endless errands make me ache, old and tired
Until I turn and am blindsided by the brilliance of joy in their faces
Shake me awake I must savor the times I can cook
Instead of saving the world. Here we are, together.
That’s the new plan.

Once upon a time I had another plan. A grand plan
I had the world to save and the hungry to feed and the poor to help
I wore a suit and felt important. I wore make-up and had my shit together
And the meetings! Oh the meetings where we drank coffee and never got tired
Thanks fore-mothers, for freedom from tyranny. We won’t clean! We won’t cook!
It’s not fair. I didn’t know life would have so many faces

I’m no brave soul who turns boldly at each corner and faces
The music. I am overwhelmed, not emboldened, by revisions to The Plan.
I belittle my meaningless days. I am too good to clean. Too smart to cook.
I am forever surprised at their tireless offers of salvation and help
So frustrated I could scream, its their skinny arms that soothe away the tired.
This must be how to save the world. Together.

We jump in piles of fresh hot laundry together
Steam from mugs of hot chocolate moisten our faces
Forts of cushions shelter us when we are tired
So why sometimes am I haunted by that nagging ghost, my discarded plan
My lofty aspirations. My ambitious goals. Then it seems nothing will help
Alleviate the feelings of unworthiness. Regardless though, I have to cook

And uninspired or tired, it doesn’t matter. We’re bound together
And so we cook. And slowly it morphs, these faces
Are the Plan. And I need no help.