Making Messes

Yipee! After a very long dry spell, I did the happy dance when I received a contract last evening from Whispering Angel Books. My dog poem will be published in Nurturing Paws, an anthology.

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This poem about me, not my dog, was published a few years ago. Things haven't gotten any better. I still get more ON me than in me.


MAKING MESSES ©
Linda O’Connell

When my children called me mommy
I was always cleaning up,
washing faces, wiping noses
and things they spilled from cups.

Couldn’t take them out to eat
without a spill or two.
Stains on shirts, forks on floors.
Then - they grew, and grew, and grew.

Now they take ME out to eat,
and it’s different than before.
I’m forever spilling things
on the table or the floor.

I cannot eat spaghetti
or anything with sauce.
It splatters down the front of me.
My shirt’s a total loss.

When I eat an ice cream cone
It drips and makes a mess.
I can’t lick it fast enough
you should see my fancy dress.

“Use your napkin, wipe your mouth,
There’s something on your face.”
My kids are saying that to ME,
and it’s really not their place.

I dropped my fork the other day
and my daughter shook her head.
My son had to pick it up for me,
because bending down I dread.

My clothes get stained and messy.
I change shirts twice a day.
I never ever imagined
My life would get this way.

I’m still cleaning up the messes
It seems like all the time,
drips and spills, spots and stains.
But now every mess is mine.