LOOK! at my gown!

I am sorry to say, I did not do a true artist date, but I did take a moment during mommy-time to sit back and just listen. What follows is the artist date I had with my kids.

LOOK! at my gown! LOOK! at my gown! More! More! Mommy I had an A+ day. In a galaxy far far away... LOOK! at my gown! Hit the drum! It's fun! LOOK! at my gown!

It may sound like the refrain from some pot-smoking hippie band, but no! This is the melody of my afternoon! My rainy day song! Who says you can't find art in the everyday? Here we have the extremely high-pitched, very unfeminist single line of a book that my daughter loves, followed by the demands of an electronic talking drum, a voice-over from my son, currently hypnotized by LEGO Starwars II, the Cinderella wanna-be, the demonic drum, and good old Cinder again.

I often wonder what the repercussions will be for our children with all the talking inanimate objects surrounding them. When I used to breastfeed, I would sit in terrified awe of the sheer numbers of eyes all around me. They were all plastic and popping out from various and sundry stuffed animals, dolls, and books, but they were eyes nonetheless...all around me!

I have a poem to go along with this, but I have to find it. So I'm going to post this, change a diaper (LOOK! at my diaper!), run downstairs and find it on my other computer, and post again.
Hey, to all my fans...thanks for reading!

Here's the poem. Written a while ago, when I was only mom to one, but still just as relevant as I sit in the basement updating my blog and I hear the older one yelling at the little one for eating his goldfish...What is it all really for? And who are we, really, us moms?

Not the Perfect Mother

There are days when I am sure
the post office clerk is wagging a finger
as he hands me my book of stamps.
You’re not the cardigan wearing woman
you want me to believe.

You’re no ordinary customer, ma’am.
This in sign language from the woman in the smudged smock
as she slices my American cheese.
It is the same all over town,
the gas station, the book store, the pharmacy.

Even the smiling teenager bagging my groceries at the supermarket.
Especially her.
She knows.
As she settles my eggs in a bag all their own
I hear a young voice whisper,
Who do you think you’re kidding?
A shadow head rises
from her left shoulder, leans in.
I guess we are going to have a conversation,
have it out right here in the market.
You were a market.
You were bought and sold.
We know what you did for love,
for the lack of it
for the want of it.
Suppose you can hide that behind a baby and an SUV?

Back in the safety of my car
I find the eggs are crushed,
the stamps have attached to my dashboard
and I am choking on a mouthful of cheese.