The Laundry Poem

Laundry, laundry, everywhere. Is that spit-up in my hair?!

The days are short, the nights are long. Am I doing this all wrong?

Many have done this long before. But something shakes me to my core.

Am I cut out for this job? Will it be their childhood I rob?

Playtime grows shorter by the day. “It happens in a blink,” they say.

I want it to stop and not speed ahead, yet time’s a force I cannot tread.

I want them happy, strong, and fed—well-rounded, kind, wise in their head.

The laundry, the dishes, everyone’s needs, the endless pressure to exceed.

Appointments, homework, friendships, lover, new versions of me yet to discover.

I’m exhausted from this mental load, torn by feelings, ready to explode.

I need to slow down so I can see that my children need the best of me.

Nothing is guaranteed, you see. This is life, in all its beauty.

Time marches on, no faster, no slower. Each day, we grow older and closer.

This is a special life I’m blessed with—filled with love, and moments that uplift.

So I’ll fold the clothes and embrace the mess, for these little years I’ll try my best.

The piles may grow, and the tasks may fray, but love weaves through each night and day.

For every sock and every shirt, there’s a memory woven, a joy unearthed.