In an effort to avoid descent to full blown whining in the rants, I have written the following poem, in the lofty form of doggerel. (Badness is where I shine, writing-wise.)
A mother hasn't chosen a glamorous career.
The job's especially hard on a thin derriere.
Frequently she wipes smeared jelly and peanut butter,
And courageously she conquers many mountains of clutter.
Constantly diapers and clothes require changing.
Schedules, meals, and wild hairs need arranging.
"Why didn't I stick with business?" she wonders,
as her kids clap in church and commit various social blunders.
Sometimes when her kids are refraining from sleeping,
she googles for methods of prevention of weeping.
Then stinky bear baby boy falls asleep in her lap,
and her heart melts into a puddle of sap.
She remembers that sometimes motherhood is sweet as honey,
and though sorely tempted, she wouldn't trade her kids for a hummer full of money.
Thank you. Thank you. Please, hold your applause.