the children dropped toys. Mama started to grouse.
She's feeling that annual Christmas let down,
The excess, the mess, they inspire her frown.
The children are already looking for more,
And she can't even find her own damn front door.
She just wants a blanket, a coffee, a snooze,
A good book, some quiet (and later, some booze).
She's been buying, and making, and wrapping for days,
Then it's over in hours. Cue the malaise.
But she does have the memory of kids at wee hours,
eyes shining in Christmas lights, awed by the towers
of gifts left by Santa, by stockings stuffed full,
by cookies left eaten: the magical pull
of waking to find the world sparkling and shiny
The enchantment of Christmas reserved for the tiny.
Yes she's wading through pine needles, wrappers, and bows,
small parts to their games, forgotten new clothes.
Yes she's chomped the last treat of this year's holiday
And she's already threatened to throw toys away.
But the new piles of junk, the new pounds of fat
Are worth it, of course, as long as there's that: