Count the Bad Mommies

Monday, April 7, 2008

your hair smells of oranges

your hair smells like oranges this evening.
you put your little arms around me and say
'i love you mommy. i sorry i cried when you say no'

i look at you and kiss your head
i mentally jawdrop a little at your sentence construction
we cuddle up on the couch
and watch the most annoying dvd of all time

(kidsongs. parents, just don't buy them. please)

and you love it.
the dumblooking children who you are clearly the bigger star out of
when compared
fascinate you
with their silly songs
and little antics

i don't care that it's giving me a headache.
i don't care that i'm lying in an uncomfortable position.
you don't care that i am tired and haven't showered yet.

all you care about is being on the couch with me.
and all i care about is me being on the couch with you.

and there i am
smelling your gorgeous hair
with your head snuggled under my chin.

when tertia told us about mommy love
i knew it could not be defined.
but this is as close as i can do.

nothing in the world matters
not bills
not deadlines
not how i look
not how i feel
not what i did or did not do today
not how i smiled or grimaced
not that i liked or disliked
not that i could or could not figure something out
not what i did or did not achieve today.

everything in the world that matters
is snuggled under my chin
smelling of oranges.

good night my cam.