They call it child-led

I am not a poet. Haven't written a poem since school in fact, and that was under duress. But this morning I had a poem in my head that conjured up perfectly how it feels right now to have two small children. So what the heck. Here it is, have a laugh at my expense...

Welcome to my motherland, (I like to think I still have another land), where,
last seen somewhere on the sofa, amidst toys and breast pads,
still tangled in the sling from which she was unloaded,
a baby lies sleeping.
So peaceful.
Yet never for long.
‘I was just stroking her, Mummy. She needs me you see’, I hear, against a back drop of cries.

My home is strewn with half-written lists, blowing about in the fan.
Cold cups of tea, only one sip taken, sit on every surface.
Reminders bleep at ten minute intervals on my phone.
‘Brush teeth!’ ‘Wash hair!’
I press the ‘Postpone’ option over and over, ever optimistic.
Little shiny stars twinkle at me from strategic places: the fridge, the mirror, the fridge.
I wish I could remember what they are supposed to be reminding me to do.

My head is strewn with half-finished thoughts;
that come back to me during night-time feeds.
My husband groans at the scratching of my pen at 3am.
‘I’m sorry’ I whisper ‘I just need to write down a thought.’
If I don’t I am afraid I will lose it forever.

My bra is permanently unclipped, my baby almost permanently latched on.
My toddler always wants to help.

My brain needs sleep. My body needs exercise (and a shower now and then wouldn’t go amiss, I’m sure my husband would agree). Oh yes, my husband!
My husband needs? My husband needs? What does he need?
It’s been so long since I asked him. We must talk abou… oh where is he anyway, damn it?

No doubt delaying the inevitable homecoming to the chaos; the hormones; the exhaustion; the unbelievable mess of my motherland.

They call it child-led.