Having becoming a father again in April (which explains the lack of activity on this blog in the last 3 months), I thought I would post this marvellous poem by the Australian poet Geoffrey Lehmann, a beautifully balanced tribute to the joys and frustrations of parenthood (love the wry twist on the opening line of Howl at the beginning). This is for all the mothers and fathers of young children out there, as a comical celebration of the enormously demanding yet immensely rewarding work we all do:
PARENTHOOD
I have held
what I hoped would become the best minds of a generation
Over the gutter
outside an Italian coffee shop watching the small
Warm urine
splatter on the asphalt – impatient to rejoin
An almond torta
and a cappuccino at a formica table.
I have been a
single parent with three children at a Chinese restaurant
The eldest five
years old and each in turn demanding
My company as
they fussed in toilets and my pork saté went cold.
They rarely went
all at once; each child required an individual
Moment of
inspiration – and when their toilet pilgrimage was ended
I have tried to
eat the remnants of my meal with twisting children
Beneath the
table, screaming and grabbing in a scrimmage.
I have been wiping
clean the fold between young buttocks as a pizza
I hoped to
finish was cleared from a red and white checked table cloth.
I have been
pouring wine for women I was hoping to impress
When a daughter
ran for help through guests urgently holding out
Her gift, a
potty, which I took with the same courtesy
As she gave it,
grateful to dispose of its contents so simply
In a flurry of
water released by the pushing of a button.
I have been
butted by heads which have told me to go away and I have done so,
My mouth has
been wrenched by small hands wanting to reach down to my tonsils
As I lay in bed
on Sunday mornings and the sun shone through the slats
Of dusty blinds.
I have helpfully carried dilly-dalliers up steps
Who indignantly
ran straight down and walked up by themselves.
My arms have
become exhausted, bouncing young animals until they fell asleep
In my lap
listening to Buxtehude. ‘Too cold,’ I have been told,
As I handed a
piece of fruit from the refrigerator, and for weeks had to warm
Refrigerated
apples in the microwave so milk teeth cutting green
Carbohydrate did
not chill. I have pleasurably smacked small bottoms
Which have
climbed up and arched themselves on my lap wanting the report
And tingle of my
palm. I have known large round heads that bumped
And rubbed
themselves against my forehead, and affectionate noses
That loved to
displace inconvenient snot from themselves onto me.
The demands of
their bodies have taken me to unfamiliar geographies.
I have explored
the white tiles and stainless steel benches of restaurants kitchens
And guided short
legs across rinsed floors smelling of detergent
Past men in
white with heads lowered and cleavers dissecting and assembling
Mounds of
sparkling pink flesh – and located the remote dark shrine
Of a toilet
behind boxes of coarse green vegetables and long white radishes.
I have badgered
half-asleep children along backstreets at night, carrying
Whom I could to
my van. I have stumbled with them sleeping in my arms
Up concrete
steps on winter nights after eating in Greek restaurants,
Counting each
body, then slamming the door of my van and taking
My own body, the
last of my tasks, to a cold bed free of arguments.
I have lived in
the extreme latitudes of child rearing, the blizzard
Of the temper
tantrum and my own not always wise or honourable response,
The midnight sun
of the child calling for attention late at night,
And have longed
for the white courtyards and mediterranean calm of middle age.
Now these small
bodies are becoming civilised people claiming they are not
Ashamed of a
parent’s overgrown garden and unpainted ceilings
Which a new
arrival, with an infant’s forthrightness, complains are ‘old’.
And the father
of this tribe sleeps in a bed which is warm with arguments.
Their bones
elongate and put on weight and they draw away into space.
Their faces
lengthen with responsibility and their own concerns.
I could clutch
as they recede and fret for the push of miniature persons.
And claim them
as children of my flesh – but my own body is where I must live.
