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Kim Simon Headshot

A Poem to End the Mommy Wars

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It's 10 p.m. in my house, and the kids are both asleep.

The tiny one is swaddled, and finally breathing deep.

My 4-year-old is tucked in tight, his blanket on his head.

I'm typing away by the glow of the screen,

though my body is pleading for bed.

You see it's almost midnight, and that's when the games begin.

My baby wakes up starving to death, and smiles his gummy grin.

I whip out my boob before he can scream, and he curls up on to my chest.

I close my eyes and start to drift...

I rarely remember the rest.

But one thing's for sure in the dead of the night, when I'm nursing by the light of my phone.

I stare out the window and I imagine you're there,

and I know that I'm never alone.

So this is your personal invite, to the party that I throw in my head.

It's nice to think that there's mamas like me, and that no one is comfy in bed.

See, when my baby spits up and it lands in my bra, I know that yours just did the same.

You might be in Utah or Kalamazoo, and I'll never discover your name.

But you're out there like me, with your babe in your arms,

and you pray that he won't make a sound.

When you get up to transfer him back to the crib,

and his binkie falls onto the ground.

His wail fills the air, and you let out a curse,

yet Daddy still snores like a train.

Moms can get by on just three hours sleep,

but The Daddy will always complain.

There are millions of mamas like me and like you,

who are doing the night-feeding dance.

Every three hours we cuddle our babes,

even as they blow-out their pants.

There's a dance that we do, all the mamas and I,

a dance that's known only to us.

It's a sway to the left and a bounce to the right,

when the baby is starting to fuss.

It's a pace down the hall and a rock in the chair,

a song whispered ever so slow.

We share the same rituals and bedtime routines,

so I think that you already know...

That it really won't matter if you bottle it up

or if milk sprays right out of your chest.

We're all feeding babies with love in our hearts,

while praying for a little more rest.

So pull out your boobies or measure your scoops,

Relax in your comfiest chair.

When you're fed up and flustered or just tired and mad,

look outside and you'll know that we're there.

You can find us on Facebook when we comment on posts,

we put pictures on IG and Twitter.

When the baby's still up and won't settle back down,

we've been known to search Etsy for "glitter."

The books like to say that the magic will come

at 6 months or 9 months for most.

But until then, we'll search for tired mommies like us,

who leave comments on Huffington Post.

There's strength in our numbers,

the Moms of The Night...

We're weary, we're hungry, we're up 'till it's light.

We're hardcore, we're shopping, we're living the dream.

We're slipping, we're fading, we're ready to scream.

We're drowning in onesies and burp rags and toys.

We're loving the heck out of our girls and boys.

But mamas get tired and pushed to the brink,

we leave laundry unfolded and dishes in the sink.

So cut us some slack if we still lose our shit,

we're warriors, we're troopers, and we've vowed not to quit.

This feeding thing is hard though we're doing it well.

With nipple shields, pumps, and some lanolin gel.

We use formula, breastmilk, bottles and pads.

We'll do anything possible to nourish our lads.

We're the same in the long run, no fighting allowed.

We're all doing our best, we deserve to feel proud.

Now it's almost that time when my oldest wakes up.

He needs water, a hug, "No, that's not the right cup!"

And as soon as he's snuggled right back in his bed,

the baby wakes up 'cause he needs to be fed.

So I'm off to the trenches but I'll see you real soon,

Remember the mamas all share the same moon.

So swaddle your babies and then raise your glasses,

let's cheers to the motherhood kicking our asses.