Also see Mother Humor, Your Mother, Domestic Engineering, Parenting, and Parenting Humor.
The Lord is my co-pilot, I shall not rush.
He maketh me to hit all the green traffic lights.
He leadeth me through shopping hassles.
He restoreth my composure.
He giveth me strength to make ends meet for my family's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of laundry, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.
Thy perspective and sense of humor, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me with the assistance of takeout.
Surely clutter and confusion shall follow me most of the days of my life, but I shall dwell in a happy home forever.
When speaking of morality,
This question comes in view:
How do mothers know about the things
They tell their daughters not to do?
I hope my children look back on today,
And see a mother who had time to play.
There will be years for cleaning and cooking,
for children grow up while we are not looking.
A Mother's love must always be strong,
her work is hard, her day is long.
But all in all, she is truly blessed,
for there is nothing so warm as a crowded nest.
Today I left some dishes dirty;
The bed got made around 3:30.
The diapers soaked a little longer,
The odor grew a little stronger.
The crumbs I spilled the day before,
Are staring at me from the floor.
The fingerprints there on the wall,
Will likely be there still next fall.
The dirty streaks on those windowpanes
Will still be there next time it rains.
Shame on you, you sit and say,
Just what did you do today?
I held a baby till she slept,
I held a toddler while he wept.
I played a game of hide and seek;
I squeezed a toy so it would squeak.
I pulled a wagon, sang a song,
Taught a child right from wrong.
What did I do this whole day through?
Not much that shows, I guess that' s true.
Unless you think that what I've done,
Might be important to someone,
With deep green eyes and soft brown hair,
If that is true . . . I've done my share.
"A woman's enchained," you have often explained,
"If she doesn't possess a CAREER."
And how can I fail to be proud and impressed
That you might be named Ms. of the year!
So, gosh, it's an honor, each day after school,
That your kids join my own for a snack,
And, gee, it's a laugh that our bath-and-a-half
Now accommodates three of your pack.
It's not that my yen to be surrogate hen,
Has been squelched playing mom to your mob;
It's just I have trouble remembering when
I ever applied for THIS job.
I'd rather be a mother
Than anyone on earth--
Bringing up a child or two
Of unpretentious birth.
I'd rather tuck a little child
All safe and sound in bed--
Than twine a chain of diamonds
About my foolish head.
I'd rather wash a smudgy face
With round, bright baby eyes--
Than paint the pageantry of fame,
or walk among the wise.
I saw a young mother with eyes full of laughter
And two little shadows came following after.
Wherever she moved, they were always right there--
Holding onto her skirts hanging onto her chair,
Before her, behind her--an adhesive pair.
"Don't you ever get weary as, day after day,
Your two little tag-alongs get in your way?"
She smiled as she shook her pretty young head,
And I'll always remember the words that she said.
It's good to have shadows that run when you run,
That laugh when you're happy and hum when you hum--
For you only have shadows when your life's filled with sun.
I remember when I could read an entire
chapter, some days even an entire book
at one sitting without interruptions.
I remember when I could work for hours
at a time in my study;
the hours were dependent on me
not on nap.
I remember when I knew no one with children
and had no idea what 2T meant.
And I remember when no one called me mommy
and when no little arms wrapped themselves
around my neck, no little kisses or hugs were mine.
And I prefer today.
Some houses try to hide the fact
That children shelter there.
Ours boasts of it quite openly,
The signs are every where.
For smears are on the windows,
Little smudges on the doors;
I should apologize I guess
For toys strewn on the floor.
But I sat down with the children
And we played and laughed and read,
And if the doorbell doesn't shine,
Their eyes will shine instead.
For when at times I'm forced to
Choose the one job or the other,
I want to be a housewife . . .
But first I'll be a mother.
I'm sorry dear, you're out of socks,
And dinner is late, besides,
But I helped Timmy fly his kite
And showed him where a dormouse hides.
I'm sorry dear, I didn't find
The time to take the wagon in.
Today a bird fell from his nest
And we two put him back again.
I'm sorry dear, but I forgot
About the cuffs I meant to sew.
We saw two dragonflies in love
And then we helped a flower grow.
The TV is blaring.
The baby is crying.
The telephone's ringing.
Young 'cowboys' are dying.
An 'Injun' is whooping,
And someone is knocking.
My husband's complaining.
My head's really rocking!
Though dazed and bewildered,
My heart's so forgiving,
I wouldn't change places
With anyone living!
Now is the time to get things done . . .
Wade in the water,
Sit in the sun,
Squish my toes in the mud by the door
Explore the world with a boy just four.
Now is the time to study books,
How a cloud looks,
To ponder "up,"
Where God sleeps nights,
Why mosquitoes take such big bites.
Later there'll be time
To sew and clean
Paint the hall
That soft new green,
To make new drapes, refinish the floor,
Later on . . .
When he's not just four.
How do I say I love you
scoldings of clean up your room,
pull up your socks (I love you),
don't spill the juice.
How do I say I love you
reminders to take your bath,
brush your teeth (I love you),
don't miss the bus.
How do I say I love you
nightly rituals of put down you book,
turn out the light (I love you),
go to sleep.
How do I say I love you
routine of daily living--
I only hope that you can hear
between the lines.
If I live in a house of spotless beauty with everything in its place,
but have not love, I am a housekeeper--not a homemaker.
If I have time for waxing, polishing, and decorative achievements, but
have not love, my children learn cleanliness--not godliness.
Love leaves the dust in search of a child's laugh.
Love smiles at the tiny fingerprints on a newly cleaned window.
Love wipes away the tears before it wipes up the spilled milk.
Love picks up the child before it picks up the toys.
Love is present through the trials. Love reprimands, reproves, and is
responsive. Love crawls with the baby, walks with the toddler, runs
with the child, then stands aside to let the youth walk into adulthood.
Love is the key that opens salvation's message to a child's heart.
Before I became a mother I took glory in my house of perfection. Now I
glory in God's perfection of my child. As a mother, there is much I
must teach my child, but the greatest of all is love.
A house is a house is a house -- until love comes through the door, that is.
And love intuitively goes around sprinkling that special brand of angel dust that transforms a house into a very special home for very special people: your family.
Money, of course, can build a charming house,
but only love can furnish it with a feeling of home.
Duty can pack an adequate sack lunch,
but love may decide to tuck a little love note inside.
Money can provide a television set,
but love controls it and cares enough to say no and take the guff that comes with it.
Obligation sends the children to bed on time,
but love tucks the covers in around their necks and passes out kisses and hugs (even to teenagers!).
Obligation can cook a meal,
but love embellishes the table with a potted ivy trailing around slender candles.
Duty writes many letters,
but love tucks a joke or a picture or a stick of gum inside.
Compulsion keeps a sparkling house.
But love and prayer stand a better chance of producing a happy family.
Duty gets offended quickly if it isn't appreciated.
But love learns to laugh a lot and to work for the sheer joy of doing it.
Obligation can pour a glass of milk,
but quite often love will add a little chocolate.
It was the night before Christmas, when all thru the abode
only one creature was stirring, and she was cleaning the commode.
The children were finally sleeping, all snug in their beds,
while visions of Nintendo 64 and Barbie, flipped through their heads.
The dad was snoring in front of the TV,
with a half-constructed bicycle on his knee.
So only the mom heard the reindeer hooves clatter,
which made her sigh, "Now what's the matter?"
With toilet bowl brush still clutched in her hand,
she descended the stairs, and saw the old man.
He was covered with ashes and soot, which fell with a shrug.
"Oh great," muttered the mom, "Now I have to clean the rug."
"Ho-ho-ho!" cried Santa, "I'm glad you're awake."
"Your gift was especially difficult to make."
"Thanks, Santa, but all I want is some time alone."
"Exactly!" he chuckled, "I've made you a clone."
"A clone?" she asked, "What good is that?
Run along, Santa, I've no time for chit-chat."
The mother's twin, same hair, same eyes, same double chin.
"She'll cook, she'll dust, " she'll mop every mess.
You'll relax, take it easy, watch The Young and the Restless."
"Fantastic!" the mom cheered. "My dream come true!
"I'll shop. I'll read., I'll sleep a whole night through!"
From the room above, the youngest began to fret.
"Mommy?! I scared . . . and I 'm wet."
The clone replied, "I'm coming, sweetheart."
"Hey," the mom smiled, "She knows her part."
The clone changed the small one, and hummed a tune,
as she bundled the child, in a blanket cocoon.
"You the best mommy ever. " I really love you."
The clone smiled and sighed, "I love you, too."
The mom frowned and said, "Sorry, Santa, no deal. "
That's my child's love, she's trying to steal."
Smiling wisely Santa said, "To me it is clear, "
Only one loving mother, is needed here."
The mom kissed her child, and tucked her into bed.
"Thank you, Santa, for clearing my head.
I sometimes forget, it won't be very long,
when they'll be too old, for my cradle-song."
The clock on the mantle began to chime.
Santa whispered to the clone, "It works every time."
With the clone by his side Santa said, "Good night.
Merry Christmas, Mom, You'll be all right."
She came tonight as I sat alone . . .
The girl I used to be . . .
And she gazed at me with her earnest eye
And questioned reproachfully:
Have you forgotten the many plans
And hopes I had for you?
The great career, the splendid fame,
all the wonderful things to do?
Where is the mansion of stately height
With all its gardens rare?
The silken robes that I dreamed for you
And the jewels in your hair?
And as she spoke, I was very sad
For I wanted her pleased with me . . .
This slender girl from the shadowy past
The girl that I used to be.
So gently rising, I took her hand
And guided her up the stairs
Where peacefully sleeping, my babies lay
Innocent, sweet, and fair.
And I told her that these are my only gems,
And precious they are to me;
That silken robes is my motherhood
Of costly simplicity.
And my mansion of stately height is love,
And the only career I know
Is serving each day in these sheltered walls
For the dear ones who come and go
And as I spoke to my shadowy guest,
She smiled through her tears at me.
And I saw the woman that I am now
Pleased the girl I used to be.
(Alice Mackenzie Swaim)
Sunbonneted, a baby in your arms,
Your home for months, a jolting wagon bed,
How staunchly you suppressed the deep alarms
That grew with every mile you forged ahead!
You watched the prairie stretch day after day,
An endless sea of grass, vast sinister,
Your heart remembering clean salt, sea spray
As trail dust clogged your throat, made your eyes blur.
You tried to face the future unafraid,
Not yielding to the doubts of yesterday,
Your lips with outward smiles while you prayed
Kind providence to guide you on your way.
You lacked possessions, yet had love to see
Children were your true immortality.