Not in fear but thanks. A mother's day poem.

Twelve years ago when I went in for an operation (the first and only one so far), I learnt the true meaning of fear. I gave the doctors and nurses in the hospital complete control over my life in going under the knife and, in doing so learnt that life is so much easier when there is someone behind you, making sure everything is going right. There are some people in life that it is hard to do without and, if my medicated state is anything to go by, today is a day of celebration for that very person. Yes, today is Mother's Day and anyone who speaks to my mother will know that as a hormonal teen, fresh from surgery, I came round from the anaesthetic crying out for my mum.
I've never been in the situation since and don't intend to start now but thinking back, I know it would have been a much harder night in hospital had I not had such a caring companion with me at the time. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not a completely gushing mummy's boy and have always been more than capable of doing things on my own but, in the times of need, there is always one person a boy can rely on to sort things out and so today, on Mother's Day and after my unscheduled visitation this morning, I've written a poem for those women all around the country (nay, globe) that do such a tireless job in bringing up the men and women of the world. The ones we can rely on from the darkest hour to the brightest moment. Mums, we love you and so today, it feels more appropriate to write in thanks than it does in fear. After all, would anyone choose to live in a world without mothers.

With thanks

For drying every child's tears
For putting them back on the bike
For quashing the financial fears
For keeping on the lights
For loving deep within the womb
Til the day their face grows old
For being there when women leave
For clothing against the cold
For feeding them relentlessly
For showing us just how to fend
For the times when boys feel so alone
For being there right to the end
For teaching us right and loving
Just the same when we get it wrong
For showing young men how to care
For always carrying on
For teaching us just how to live
For the guidance we could all do with
For giving every drop of milk
It is possible to give
For cradling each infant
For teaching them how to read
For each essential lesson in life
For living without greed
For the days when things are helpless
For strength when worlds fall apart
Thank you, just for being you
And for building the young man's heart.

Thanks for reading. And mum, I love you.
S.

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How about it, darling?

When a young lad at work told me on Monday he had lost his virginity, I didn't know whether to high-five him or mourn for his broken soul. I went for the high-five, it being the desired response from him, to which the world had just begun. For that lad there are no foaming children in Syria, no troubles in any economy and no songs that won't make him dance. Welcome to the world pal- now watch as the women conspire at pounding and beating your heart like a piece of meat, turning it 'tender', eventually.

Of course, I share the same cautionary tale of any other bloke ten years older than he is. I should tell him to watch out for the crazy women but dance with at least one. To live whilst he is young. To try a nymphomaniac at least as often as he can, never getting too attached. I should tell him to risk it all, to run off with someone twice his age and learn everything she will let him. To stake his heart on a matter of pride, lose it all and spend nights yearning and listening to Leonard Cohen.  A month or so of wailing and drinking yourself to sleep is eventually good for the soul. I should have told him that women can make you and break you just as easily, and that there will always be another. I should have told him all of those things- the timeless lessons men endure in every generation but I didn't- I gave him the high-five.

I'll never forget the time when, recently single, I was fed up of women. I went along to a poetry event at the local college- thoroughly sick of chasing witches around the town. If I could only snare myself a nice girl- trick one into thinking I was sensitive or something. Someone a bit less hassle. There were two girls smoking, sat on the wall outside. I quickly established one was a lesbian and so focused in. As fate would have it, that girl was a keen poet that enjoyed things like reading and camping so, after getting to know her as 'a friend' for months, I finally plucked up the balls to ask a nice girl out.

Three years on, we've lived together for a while. There should be special lessons at school for surviving women. Whilst girls are being shown how to operate a tampon, take the poor sods to one side for an hour to let them in on the pros and cons of cohabitation. The list of things not to do are endless; as are the lists of things you'll do wrong and be expected to do wrong, being a man and all. I'm lucky- bloody lucky- in that the woman in my life isn't an overbearing, psychotic, un or over-attached, power-crazed, power-dressing nutjob- well, not all of the time. That said, there are certain little things you can do to make things run smoothly... and you'd be amazed how picky women can be about mess!

Thanks for reading, S


The First Lesson

Do the bins and wash pots,
Push the hoover, pair socks
Put the seat back- avoid extra strife

Pet the cat, not a dog
Watch her films on the box
Simple trades for an easy life.

Kormas shared, not Jalfrezis
Attempt to be less lazy
Think of her always before yourself

Visit her folks and yours
Do a fair share of chores
Or she'll put you back out on the shelf.

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