Friday, 24 April 2015

Mum of Boys

The fridge opens once again, shuts softly once more
A rustle belies the bread bin, as crumbs hit the floor
The clink of plates, the swish of juice, the sound of a happy crunch
The chomping, and the slurping, an hour after lunch.

The arguing over who has left dirty socks on the chair
The endless hours of staring in the mirror at ‘the hair’
The grunting, with legs stretched out, in front of the tv
The lid left up on the toilet, the bowl full of pee

Trainers stinking in the hall, kit bags far and wide
Shoes randomly in singles, some living outside
The weird rush of affection, manifest in hurried hugs
And then back to the business of racing lady bugs

The jumping on the trampoline, then sitting there for hours
The ability to sniff out food with extraterrestrial powers
Thoughtful silences coupled with an existential roar
‘Do not disturb, get out my room and shut the b*** door!’

Striding out for a Duck, handsome all in white
Scoring sweaty goals, mauling without fight
Noisy celebrations, slapping backs and shouting loud
Raising arms high, wave to an unseen crowd.

Shouting at the telly, the ref’s got it wrong again
I watch them as they grow up, my funny little men.
Where farting is hilarious, no matter what the age
And sulking is unheard of, just turn another page

No matter what the difference, no one hurts a bro
His siblings rally round, tell others where to go
Living, fighting, squabbling, a happy little pack
Growing ever upwards, with no turning back

Muscled arms and legs, baby fat becomes lean
The cute and chubby toddler is nowhere to be seen
Voice becomes melodic, scaling up and down
Round face becomes a bloke’s, swaddled in a frown

The rising of the food bill, the electric charges high
Bedrooms resembling nothing short of a piglets sty
Yet sound asleep it seems like they’re toddlers once more
If you ignore the empty plate,
and the breadcrumbs on the floor.