(I wrote this poem in August 2021 and it always brings me right back to that morning which, in hindsight, doesn’t seem half as bad as it did on the day!)

I’m restless,

agitated,

reeeeeeally cranky.

The cat has kicked her poop onto the kitchen floor and the dog is eating it.

It would be funny if it wasn’t so revolting.

I thought the new door-flap would keep her toilet closed off from the room.

I’d really prefer my one and a half year old son didn’t have to walk on pissy poopy kitty litter while wearing his socks.

My body follows my erratic, irritable thoughts with sudden sharp moves,

pouring the boiling water into the cup too quickly, droplets splashing onto my hand.

A sting or two.

This is my day so far.

The knife clatters to the table as I finish mindlessly buttering my toast and hand a slice to my patiently waiting boy.

He eyes my bigger piece before happily munching on his own.

It’ll be some time yet before he understands the concept ‘it’s not fair’.

I place my cup down, not paying attention, my mind anywhere but here and now.

The cup knocks off the edge of the table and a full mug of scalding tea sloshes over my trousers, the seat cushion, the dirty floor.

“Ah fuck!”

I rub my eyes in frustration, knowing tears aren’t far away.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!”

I glance over to see my little boy peering curiously at the puddle of tea on the floor, tiny drips still plopping off the table edge.

He looks at me openly, wondering…

Then he points excitedly at the roll of kitchen tissue with more animated grunts.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!”

I sigh.

Then I kiss him gently on his perfect little forehead and walk over the mess towards the roll.

“I guess we’d better clean this up, hmm?”

He nods emphatically.

And my heart softens in spite of myself.