Waking every hour
like clockwork
to quiet the crying.
Fighting the monsters
outside the window,
trying to quiet the noises
that hinder her sleep,
not thinking about
the loss of my own.
(Then, of course, she sleeps all day.)
I can’t remember
my last full night of sleep.

Tracks of God-knows-what
throughout the house.
How many bottles
of 409 have I gone through this week?

Toys scattered throughout the house.
I’ve tripped on this one
at least three times this week
and it’s only Monday.
I could have sworn I threw
that one away and
I don’t know where
this one came from...

My presence is constantly needed.
As soon as I leave the room
I can hear the protests.
It is nice to feel needed, though.

She can’t use words to
tell me what she needs,
but luckily a mother
has intuition for these sorts of things.
Every different cry or whine
has a meaning only I can understand.

But the crying and the whining,
the messes and the toys,
the lack of sleep,
all the small nuisances
that seem awful from an
outside perspective,
pale in comparison
to the love I give
and the love I receive in return.

(By the way, I don’t have a baby.
I have a very old dog.
But that’s basically the same thing.)