Tag: children

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Nevermore

I am blessed with two children, and that’s the family I always dreamed of. But  it does seem like only yesterday that starting a family, being pregnant, the whole baby thing – well, it was all an adventure that lay ahead of me. And now, it’s all behind me.

And I think it’s OK to ponder on that, without everyone hollering “Ooooh do you want another one then?” No, I don’t. But yes, just sometimes, I feel a little wistfully sad that that phase of my life has gone by.

Nevermore

Nevermore the swell beneath my fingers,
Nevermore the flutters in my core,
Nevermore the secret smile that lingers.
Once, my womb bore nothing but potential,
Now it’s finished, done, inconsequential,
Nevermore to matter, nevermore.

Nevermore the sleeplessness that floors me,
Nevermore the ligaments so sore,
Nevermore the nausea that gnaws me.
Once, the humdrum hit a strange hiatus,
Once I was cocooned by special status,
I’ll nevermore be special, nevermore.

 

©️ Nina Parmenter 2018

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Photo by freestocks.org on Unsplash

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Toddler Tantrum

Here’s the latest in a long line of “parenting stuff I worked out a bit too late”.

It has taken until my second child reaches three-and-a-half to work out that a child having a tantrum (a proper one, not a fake one) is NOT generally a child that can be reasoned with. No, a child having a tantrum is a bewildered trainee human, confused and overstimulated by a overloaded, malfunctioning lizard brain.

You wanna reason with that? You go ahead, supermum. For now, I’ll just stick to giving him space and cuddles.

Toddler Tantrum

Your brother pushed the button at the crossing,
The bowl you want is blue; you got the red,
The world dissolves. And suddenly you’re lost in
A cruel new place, uncharted in your head.

This world is wrong; it threatens your survival,
Raw panic meets bewilderment and rage,
These primal feelings brawl and churn and spiral –
It’s all too huge to process at your age.

Your skin turns red, you scream, emotions wheeling,
Your chubby hands curl tightly into claws,
You hit the ground, you pummel out those feelings,
That seem too big and scary to be yours.

I meet the stares from passers-by with shrugs.
I’ll give you space, brave boy, then give you hugs.

 

©️Nina Parmenter 2018

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Gotta Get Out The House

Ah… quality time at home with the children.

I’m sorry, what?! There is quality time with the children. And there is time at home with the children. And, for our family, the two are pretty much mutually exclusive. Home is about mess, fights, funny smells, nagging, exasperation, and a lot of arguments involving the word “screen”. The good stuff happens outside the house. IF ONLY WE CAN GET THEM OUT….

Gotta Get Out The House

Gotta get out the house, gotta leave,
My sanity needs some reprieve,
That two little boys,
Could make so much noise –
You’d have to be here to believe!

Before, I’d no concept at all,
Of the phrase “We are climbing the walls” ,
But now it appears,
We are wall mountaineers,
Trying to flee from the mess and the brawls.

We’ve tried castles, museums, a wood,
Hit the park way more times than we should,
Our purses are thickets,
Of passes and tickets,
Cos not being home is soooo good.

Our bank account’s screams are dramatic:
“No more lunch! No more fuel! I can’t hack it!”
“No more bribes!” (Yes – they’re wrong –
But they move things along –
And we call it “being pragmatic”!)

So into the car and away!
The safari park’s waiting today!
To the monkey house! Yes,
It might look quite a mess –
But OUR house will look worse if we stay!

 

©️Nina Parmenter 2018

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Perplexing Child

We know that part of the reason for our success as a race is our diversity. And yet, we still sometimes don’t know how to cope with difference. Especially amongst our children.

Faced with sensitive children, artistic children, gifted children, ADHD children, autistic children – we’re tempted to try to homogenise them, make them conform, quash what makes them brilliant. Because, as much as we desperately love them, what makes them brilliant can also make them a huge, perplexing challenge.

Perplexing Child 

My brave, perplexing child – you are unique,
You do not touch the world like others do.
The words we say, our rules, the things we seek,

They’re all a strange cacophony to you.

What does life feel like, there behind your eyes,
Your mouth, your nose, your fingertips, your ears?
If I could breathe your breath, what fresh surprise

would hide within your thoughts, your dreams, your fears?

You challenge life. You rail against the norm,
Within this world that needs us all compliant,
You’ll blossom, though, while they rush to conform,

You’ll grow in your own skin, become a giant.

One day you’ll burn magnificently bright,Until then, there’s a world we have to fight.

 

©️ Nina Parmenter 2018

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You cannot beat a stick

My children have some great toys so  I feel a mixture of delight and slight irritation when they abandon them all for sticks.

No trip to a woodland, romp round a stately home, or quick pee in a layby is complete for my children without harvesting a stick. Gun-shaped sticks are among the most prized, although fights regularly break out over a good “staff”.

I am totally without scruples when it comes to disposing of them – however a 2 minute run round my house revealed the booty shown in the photograph. Yes. The sticks are winning.

You cannot beat a stick

Toy companies are pretty sly,
Their flashy ads are slick,
But still they cannot fathom why,
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Soft Play

For many Mums, a trip to soft play is a good excuse for a sit-down and a chat. Not for me. My three year old drags me round the teeny tiny assault course with all the energy of – well a three year old.

I am therefore massively grateful to Sarah McIntosh for requesting a soft play poem -Sarah, composing this literally kept me sane as I crawled round Little Urchins for an hour and a half this afternoon, so thank you!

Soft Play

Soft play will be nice,” I think,
I’ll sit and drink some tea,
But then I hear the words I fear,
“Mummy! play with me!”

Doesn’t this boy realise,
I’m not the size of Frodo?
I’ll come out, weeping, all scrunched up,
Like Mummy Quasimodo.

I can’t go down the bumpy slide,
My dodgy back can’t take it,
I can’t go down the tube slide,
Cos my arse just will not make it.

I can’t go through the rollers,
Man, they really hurt my boobs,
I can’t go up the zig zag steps,
(Well, not without some lube).

I can’t go in the playhouse,
As I’m over three foot two,
And also I might suffocate,
Cos someone’s done a poo.

The ball pit is a dangerous place,
I’m really much too big,
At best, I’ll flatten all the balls,
At worst, somebody’s kid.

“Why don’t you play with Jack?” I beg,
“Your bestest friend from nursery?”
“No, Mummy, I want YOU”, he pouts,
My boy shows me no mercy.

So on I go, across the bridge,
And up the cargo net,
Let’s face it, it’s the only
exercise I ever get.

 

©️ Nina Parmenter 2018

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Nothing makes me mutter more than clutter

I hate clutter. That may surprise anyone who has ever visited my house. But what’s important to realise is that there is a difference between wanting a tidy house and being able to achieve it.

I have friends with grown up, tidy houses. Friends with grown up, tidy houses AND KIDS. I’m at a loss as to how this is achieved. I’m guessing the crucial ingredients are a domestic goddess mother, and a well-trained, or at least trainable family. Here, we have neither.

So it seems that I am doomed to wake up each day, vow to have A BIG TIDY UP, sometimes even achieve a middle-sized tidy up, and then go to bed wondering which house it was that I tidied earlier.

This poem,  if you’d be so kind, is to be read with a hint of insanity in the voice. Thank you so much.

Nothing makes me mutter more than clutter

Nothing makes me mutter more than clutter,
It’s the very ruination of my day,
My family, no doubt, really LOVE to get stuff out,

But I think they think it puts itself away.

I tell you, I’m not blessed with being domestic –
For tidiness, I’d give myself a six,
But my precious family would each earn themselves a three,

Which all adds up to a house which makes me twitch.

There are ninety-seven items in the kitchen,
Which are not where I intended them to be,
In the lounge there’s fifty-four, in the dining room there’s more,

In the playroom, there’s two hundred, maybe three.

There are pens and bills and helmets on the table,
There are bricks and cups and spanners on the drawers,
And upon the window sill, there’s a pile of stuff that will

Have to stay there til I work out what it’s for.

In the bedroom, there is very little legroom,
In the hallway there is very little hope,
In the bathroom, so much stuff, there is barely room to guff,

And I don’t know how much longer I can cope.

So I’ve tidied and I’ve picked up and I’ve kicked up,
I’ve ranted til I’m purple in the face,
But as soon as somewhere’s clear, there’s just one sound I will hear…

The clatter as more clutter takes its place.

 

By the way – if you were thrown by the word “guff”, do let me know – I’m not sure if this delightful term for a fart is only understood by those who were around seven years old in 1984. Could even be a Somerset thing, I’m not sure!

I do have in my pocket the alternative line “There is barely any fart-room in the bathroom – which I quite like – but I was swayed by the opportunity to say “guff” for the first time in around twenty years!

 

©️ Nina Parmenter 2018

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