The Problem With National Poetry Month

I can get nothing done, nothing but poetry that is. No blog entries. No laundry. No nice meals, just hot dogs, pizza, and grilled cheese. Every day I've been visiting Poetic Asides for the Poem A Day (PAD) Challenge. The name says it all; it's a challenge to write a poem each day for the month of April (National Poetry Month). I may not be working on my children's books, but I am having fun and working on my writing, so it is a win-win for me. Here's the poem I wrote for today's prompt- "The problem with ____"

The problem with having children

They steal your very identity away. Instead of witty banter, you begin to speak in “goos” and “gaas,” and other nonsensical things. They torture you with sleep deprivation until you feel like some kind of wraith or zombie, stumbling about the kitchen in the morning for a cup of coffee. Coffee, your once morning company will now be your all day partner. You think of ways to have it administered continuously, like a drip bag with an IV, no more brewing cup by cup. Oh, and that book on your nightstand is no longer a book, but a dust collector, and it will be for the next three years. Deep and impassioned poetry will be left to the academics. You’re too busy counting fingers and toes and writing drivel about how God kissed every one of them when he created your little “miracle.” Forget about stories of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches being shoved into movie playing appliances. It’s worse than that. It is the never ending hell of potty training, of knowing that you once taught a mere puppy to piss on a newspaper, but you can’t get your own damn child to “tinkle” in a toilet. (Yes, you will use words like “tinkle.”) And, after a long day of power struggles, tantrums, and whining, you will set your cup of coffee on top of your dust collector, crawl into bed exhausted, and cross, praying to God for another miracle- sleep. But, as you give yourself over to the darkness, a small shape climbs up beside you, sweaty and sniffling. You curse them, then kiss them. Very soon, small sounds emit from the sleeping child- quiet, steady breathing and heart beating. You want to roll over and fall asleep yourself, but you can’t. Instead you snuggle closer, smelling something similar to strawberries and honey. You run your finger over the round, warm cheek, cursing, then resolutely kissing your identity good-bye.