By Helen Farmer
I didn’t know how massive I’d get, or that you just’d kick so onerous,
I didn’t know that tiger stripes are like survivor scars.
I didn’t know how scared I’d be, how fearful of the ache,
I didn’t know I’d pay one million quid to not push you out once more.
I didn’t know how small you’d be, identical to a child fowl,
I didn’t know you’d demand a lot and not using a single phrase.
I’d by no means heard of cluster feeding, of these hours in The Chair,
Of bleeding boobs, pumping for days, topless and laid naked.
I didn’t know that in someday I’d cry from pleasure and rage,
Or mutter like a lunatic “please simply be a stage”.
I didn’t know how drained I’d be, I although it was a joke,
Or that sleep is sort of a forex – and I was at all times broke.
I didn’t know my money would go on milk or tiny sneakers,
Or dialog would revolve across the frequency of poos.
I didn’t know I’d lose some buddies, they’d surprise the place I’d been,
Or that I’d one way or the other make some extra, uniting by way of caffeine.
I didn’t know I’d lose myself a bit alongside the way in which,
That on the day I turned a mum, one thing really modified.
I didn’t know you’d be my boss, and that the hours had been slave labour,
That I’d miss that 9 to five and never feeling like a failure.
I didn’t know I’d fall in love with the scent of breath and pores and skin,
Or that my largest concern can be shedding all the things.
I didn’t know the satisfaction I’d really feel to see you rising up,
Or it’s potential to damage somebody’s day with the unsuitable colored plastic cup.
I didn’t know I’d harbour hate for a easy youngsters’ cartoon,
However I’d merrily take out Peppa [Pig] with a bloody nice harpoon.
I didn’t know that point alone can be so very treasured,
Or jail sentence would make me really feel fairly jealous.
I didn’t know that my very own mum was such an unsung hero,
Till I had my very own youngsters and I realised what she’d been by way of.
I didn’t know that the life I knew can be gone and not using a hint,
Together with my waistline, my sanity and my beautiful unlined face.
However would I flip again the clock? Would I change a single factor?
After all not, my baby, however I’d love an extended lie-in…
This poem was initially printed on Helen Farmer’s Fb web page — The Mothership.
All photographs from Helen Farmer