Love Poems for People with Children

My six-year-old got hold of my phone

My apologies, Reverend.

My six-year-old

got hold

of my phone

and sent you

142

poop emojis.

Please know

that this in no way

reflects my opinion of you

or the Church.

(Although it does make me wonder if there is a god.)

To my father-in-law, Lou.

No grandparent should ever receive

a GIF of Fabio not wearing pants

dancing suggestively

with the words

Let's get it on!

I was sure I had deleted that.

To my boss, Gary.

Did you happen to receive a photo

of a baboon's ass

with a note reading

Found this picture of you?

I sent that one.

If there were a job interview to have children

The interviewer might say

I see here that you want children.

And you might say, Yes! I'm ready.

Great. Are you happy in your marriage?

Very. My wife is amazing.

Good for you. Just a couple of questions. When's the last time you went to hear live music?

Two weeks ago. Last-minute thing. Saw a jazz band.

Last time on a plane?

Paris, I think. Yes. We went to Paris for four days.

Did you sleep on the plane?

Yes. It was an overnight flight.

Did anyone throw up on you at any time?

No. Of course not. Why?

Did anyone on the plane wake you suddenly by screaming in your face?

What? No.

May I ask about the frequency of your sex life?

Average, I guess. Five or six times a week.

How wonderful. I'd like you to take this paper from me. Do you feel anything?

What the hell . . . what is this? It's sticky and it smells.

Do you like that feeling?

No!

Don't be alarmed but I am now going to pour this large glass of orange juice on your pant leg.

Jesus Christ! I can't believe you just did that.

I'm going to make a very loud, annoying noise in your ear. Tell me if you enjoy it. Ahhhhhhh!!!!

What the hell is wrong with you, man?!!

Mister Simpson, I have some bad news for you.

Who will be the first to get up?

3:42 a.m. and the baby is crying.

Again.

Who will get up first?

I know that you

know that I

am not asleep.

I'm just faking.

But I also know

that you know

that I know

that you are faking.

Because like me

you have developed the qualities

of an Academy Award-nominated

fake sleeper.

Who will break?

And then you say

If you get up, I'll show you my boobs.

Done.

Quiet time

Late now and light low.

Stories read, time for bed.

Dad, you whisper, why do sumo wrestlers wear diapers?

No one knows, buddy. Shhh.

Why does the emperor stand behind the catcher?

Umpire, pal. Not emperor. Shhh.

What happened to the boy who cried wolf?

He grew up and works in real estate. Go to sleep.

Sleep finally comes.

For me

briefly.

I wake with a start

move like a cat

head to the door.

Wine time.

Dad?

(Shit! Dammit! Little bastard!)

Yes, buddy?

In "Rock-a-bye Baby," why is the baby on top of a tree?

Because he wouldn't go to sleep.

The baby fell out of the tree?

He did, yes.

And the cradle fell, too?

The whole thing. Crashed to the ground. I won't lie, it was bad.

Why do we sing that?

Because it teaches us an important lesson.

What's the lesson?

Be quiet or we put you in a tree. Shhh.

My breast-feeding breasts

I know that to you

it might seem like it

would be fun for me

to have my

boobs squeezed

as I unpack the groceries.

It's not, though.

I'm not feeling sexy.

And they're sore

and full of milk

for our baby.

Also

Look at those jugs

is not what I want to hear

from you right now. (Ever?)

And may I add

that there is a time

and a place to touch them.

And that time was not

at your uncle's wake last week.

What if I

just walked up to you

and squeezed your penis?

Oh. That was not the answer I was expecting.

There isn't a chance in hell we're having sex now, is there?

You have a look on your face

as you get into bed.

Well, I assume you have a look on your face

as I can't quite see your face

because you haven't looked at me for a while.

Ever since we argued.

There were two sides, of course.

Fine. Maybe just the one side.

And maybe I wasn't on it.

And maybe I haven't apologized yet

because I have the emotional intelligence

of a can of gravy.

(Your words, but not wrong.)

But now you are in your

underwear and a T-shirt.

And while I can't see your face

I can see your butt

which looks very nice to me.

I assume that my ability to see your butt

is a signal from you to me

that all is forgiven

and that you want to have sex.

But it turns out it's not a signal at all.

It's just my ability to see.

Did I mention I'm sorry? I say

attempting to touch your non-signaling butt.

Don't even, you say

swatting my hand away.

Very good then.

Signal received.

Labor pain

After the epidural

you managed to nap

in the delivery room.

And I watched you

my lovely wife

smiling at the thought of our child

but also a little hungry.

Did you pack a sandwich or anything?

I whispered to you

shaking your arm a bit

when you didn't respond.

So what I did was-

because I didn't want to bother you anymore-

I went across the street

to grab a quick burger and a beer.

I decided to sit at the bar

because I was kind of tired too.

Maybe I was just hungry

but it was a really good burger.

So then I had a second beer

and got to chatting with the bartender.

He was the one who suggested

that maybe I should get back to the hospital

when he found out what was going on.

(Great guy.)

And while I wasn't technically in the room with you

when our son was born

I was certainly there in spirit.

We should all go back to that bar sometime.

I am going to count to three

I mean it, young lady.

You do NOT want me to count to three.

1 . . .

2 . . .

Dammit.

She's not budging.

What does one do after three?

Go to four?

Has anyone ever gone to four?

What is the protocol on four?

Is it possible to go to five?

To ten?

What happens at 100?

What's the punishment there?

A supermax prison in Colorado?

I'm going to give you a second chance.

Do what I asked and put your things away.

No.

Put your backpack away.

No.

Clean up your crayons?

No.

What are you willing to do?

Watch Doc McStuffins?

Deal.

Privacy please

As I sit on the toilet

the door opens.

There you stand

almost two years old.

Hi Dad!

you say.

Hi sweetie

I respond.

Are you going to the bathroom?

you ask.

Sure am, I say.

But I need some privacy.

Close the door please.

And you do.

From the inside.

So, Dad, you ask.

What should we talk about?

I am fully aware that the wheels on the bus go round and round

I get it.

I know about the wheels and the horn and the babies.

Everyone knows that.

Here's something you might not know.

The daddy on this bus is thinking

This is not what I signed up for.

And maybe the driver on the bus

is thinking the exact same thing.

Maybe he looks over at the daddy

and he doesn't go Move on back.

Maybe instead he nods and smiles.

And the daddy nods and smiles.

And the driver hits the gas

and goes zoom, zoom, zoom

so fast that the mommies on the bus say

Jesus Christ almighty, slow down!

And the driver screeches to a halt at the corner

because he sees a sign for a bar called "Open at 9 a.m."

and he and the daddy get off the bus and go into the bar.

Call an Uber

because this bus is out of service.

Sing that verse, why don't you.

The talk

Well, son.

Here we are

in the car

driving to Costco

for a fifty-pack of paper towels.

You're ten years old now.

Wow.

I'm eleven, Dad, you say.

Why are we going the long way?

And why are you smoking?

Great questions.

But here's a question for you.

You know your penis, right?

Wait. What?

you ask, staring at me.

Son, let's say a man has a penis and that penis . . .

Dad. Is this a math problem?

Like: if a train leaves Chicago at nine a.m. . . .

Nope. Not a math problem.

It's a penis problem.

Well, not a problem per se.

You see, a woman has a vagina.

And the penis and vagina say hello.

Ha! A talking penis!

Glen at school does a talking penis thing with his lunch box.

Forget Glen for a minute.

When a man and a woman love each other . . .

Are you and Mom getting a divorce?!

No no. God no. Your mother likes me very much.

No, I'm talking here about . . . well . . .

Lovemaking.

Intercourse . . .

Oh. Glen says you need a boner first.

Well, Glen is spot-on there.

Come to think of it

maybe just talk to Glen.

Barney died, sweetheart

It's sad, I know.

How did he die?

Well, Barney was old.

And you know how dinosaurs are extinct?

Extinct means you no longer deserve to live.

That's just a rough definition

of course.

Anyway he was the last dinosaur.

And now he's gone.

And here's a funny story about Caillou.

He went on vacation.

Forever.

You know how we go on vacation

to your grandmother's

for one agonizing week?

I mean wonderful week?

Well, it's like that.

Only the food is probably better.

Oh. And I saw on the news recently that

Paw Patrol went on their last mission.

Apparently they retired.

And the Bubble Guppies moved to Phoenix.

And Dora . . . poor Dora went a little too far exploring.

Look, sweetheart. The Bourne Identity is on.

You'll like this.

What you call sex I call a wonderful time to make a mental list

Is this good? you ask.

It's very pleasant, I respond, distracted,

immediately regretting the word "pleasant."

Pleasant? you say, confused and hurt.

Sorry, I meant amazing.

What are you thinking about? you ask, trying to be sexy.

You, I lie.

Of course you. And . . . lots of . . . sexy things . . .

Like the fact that we need milk.

And paper towels.

And glancing over at the windows

I notice that they need to be washed.

And I forgot to call my sister back.

Oh, and my shoes at the cobbler.

"Cobbler" is a funny word.

Cobbler.

Except I say cobbler out loud.

And you say

Oh yeah. You're my dirty little peach cobbler, aren't you?

Sure, whatever.

I'm not.

But thank you for reminding me

that I need to go to the farmer's market.

Baby wipes

If you had told me

in my twenties

that I would do this,

I wouldn't believe you.

But this morning,

the baby's poop

shot out like a cannonball

and some of it landed in my hair.

Well, I was pretty tired

and I guess too lazy

to shower.

And I was late for work.

So what I did

was take a baby wipe

and clean it out of my hair.

Most of it, anyway.

Then I went on with my day.

Family vacation

This is relaxing

I think to myself

on the first day

of our vacation

as I hide

in the men's room

of a Roy Rogers

at a rest stop

just off bumper-to-bumper I-95

while the kids

continue fighting

with tennis racquets

in the back seat.

And only five more hours to go.

I don't want to leave this place

I whisper aloud.

Neither do I

says the man in the next stall.

Interpreting your preschool artwork

I made this for you, Mommy!

Honey. It . . . is . . . a-MAZ-ing.

But you're not looking. You're looking at your phone.

Sorry, honey. I see it now.

Guess what it is!

Oh my! Well I think it's pretty obvious . . .

It's a duck on a plane!

No it isn't!

Oh. Well . . . is it a farmer . . . and a little round pig who might also be a beach ball?

Noooo!

Ahhh . . . a dog holding a lottery ticket?

Mom!

This part looks like a prison yard . . . Is it a prison . . . in the moonlight?

Mommy!

Tell me.

It's a stick eating a grape!

Good job, sweetie.

Let's put it in the big pile

by the fireplace

where all of Mommy's

special papers go.

Weekend breakfast with the family

I was up early on Sunday

and did two loads of laundry

and made a shopping list

for the week

and then made eggs and pancakes

for everyone.

My children hugged me.

How lovely.

You're Mrs. Squishy Butt

my daughter said

squeezing my butt

laughing.

My son and husband laughed too.

You are, Mom!

Your butt is so squishy!

You have the squishiest butt in the whole house!

Everyone kept laughing

and saying I had

a squishy butt.

What fun!

Except I guess I was a bit tired.

The weekends can be long.

And maybe I don't go to the gym

as much as I should.

You all stopped laughing though

when I threw the bowl

of pancake batter

into the sink

and shouted

You can all go straight to hell!

I may have overreacted.

The heat between us

In the kitchen

after the babies are down

we are finally alone.

You in your baggy sweatpants

stained fleece

and old socks.

I sense your sexuality.

If I squint.

I am so turned on

I hear you say

through a mouthful

of cold mac and cheese

spooned directly from a saucepan.

Tired.

You said I am so tired.

My bad.

I lean in to kiss your neck

and am hit with a powerful scent

that forces me back.

New shampoo? I ask.

No. I think that's spit-up.

I feel the heat between us.

And that heat is the front burner

which I left on by mistake.

3:32 a.m. and I am sure the infant is taunting me

The Navy SEALs do a thing

so I have heard.

Hell Week.

Days and nights

with almost no sleep.

Pushed to their limit.

Except it only lasts five days.