PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Today is one of those days where you feel like your life is an airplane...

Crashing in mid-takeoff.

Where every thing seems to be going wrong - step in a mud puddle, lose your wallet, lock yourself out of the house, get fired, dog goes missing, lover leaves you, car gets broken into, cat eats your goldfish - and you can't seem to stay strong through it all.

Where every single telemarketer in the world seems to own your phone number, and calls every five seconds.

Where everyone that you talk to seems to be twice as ignorant as the day before - and twice as interested in having a conversation with you.

What's more - No matter how many times you try to clean the house, it never stays that way for more than two minutes.



It's one of those days for me. One of those days where I just want to lock my bedroom door and hide in the corner - hugging my knees waiting for the bombs to drop.

Where I just I want to laugh and cry at the same time -

I won't lie to you -

I'm having a rough day.

Better yet - make that a week.

Where I just want to find some ear plugs or duct tape.

No one ever told me that I'd feel this way.

I was never warned that every time someone spoke to me I'd want to rip their heads off.

I've never been so frustrated.

And what's worse - every time I walk through a grocery store I can SENSE them. No - more like smell them.

I can smell the ones who've just got their fix of... Yep. You guessed it: Nicotine.

Then my urges kick in: One little drag - it won't hurt none. Give me that sweet, heavenly ammonia, that delicious rat poison, let me inhale that ambrosial toilet cleaner, let me absorb that savory paint stripper.

And then my mind is brought back to reality.

“Mommy - I am so proud of you.” I look down to see a pair of familiar doe eyes staring back up at me. And I smile the smile of 23 years of children - 23 years of worry, of constant mothering, of relentless care.

And I realize to myself: Quitting smoking is a piece of cake compared to what this body has seen. Because the term “Working Mother” is redundant, and these kids have a whole lot of years to go - I plan on being part of them.