Blogs

  • Oct
    31
    2018

Poems

Poems
Hello all. I have been scribbling a few poems about my sprogs. Some of these are available as prints free with some of our fab kickstarter pledge prizes.

My Girl

She’s Hermione. And Ron. AND Harry. She’s spiderman. She’s the hulk. She’s George Eliot. Maya Angelou. Alice Walker. She’s the Ice Queen. The poisoned apple. She’s the ogre under the bridge. She stands on tables. Walks on water. She’s the captain of the pirate ship. The captain of the space ship. She solves equations, writes codes and symphonies. She’s hilarious and messy and brilliant. So her dress might be pretty but she’s not just a princess.

The swimming lesson

My heart burst today. It still hurts thinking about it. Those shiny brown limbs, I just want to bite them. He's gripping that noodle other kids have bitten. Kicking his legs like he's riding a bike. Or marching or something. He's not the fastest across the pool. His style is wonky. But his grin. He smiles wider and longer than anything. While he's in that pool he's a star. A dreamboat. A mermaid. He follows all the instructions. I can see his brain working. My eyes are moist. My perfect boy.

The beautiful moon

In the cab after one of those holiday days. Skin tight. Everyone tired. Missed the boat back. Lots of cava. Earlier. We thought, let's go to a restaurant, the kids seem fine... Straight away one starts crying because she wants to sit next to daddy and opposite mummy. Can you move over here darling? The other one hunkers down. Crying. Whispered: please move, I'll give you ice cream. No. Still crying. Oh look a sticker book. Crying stops abruptly. Sticking ensues. The smallest can't do it. There's a sticker on her elbow. Cava happens. Spaghetti happens. Mess. Crying. Wee wees. Whining. Split lip. CRYING. Ice cream. So we're in the cab. Wish I'd drunk more cava. Or less. Not sure anymore. LOOK AT THE BEAUTIFUL MOON! Says one. Beautiful. Moon. Says the other. Not such a bad evening after all... I suppose.

Why

Weetabix. I WANT IT! She chucks it on the floor. Apple. I WANT IT! She spits it on the floor. Porridge. Guess what? Floor. Nappies are pulled one by one from the bag and thrown over the shoulder. Piles of clean washing are swept to the ground. We scoop, we sweep and we wipe. Oh why did I give her so many peas? Who is this whirlwind? This destructor of worlds? And why? Why, darling, WHY do you do it?
By Judy Skidmore

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