We're called the sandwich generation -- not because we are wedged between our children and our aging parents, but because of the frequency with which we find a PB&J stuck between the folds of the minivan seats. There's only so much Febreeze and carpet cleaner a parent can go through before the fumes start to attack the nervous system, and we breathe out in verse. Instead of fighting the pent-up frustration of no longer being able to see my feet over my boobs, I'm channeling it into wine-tinged poetry as middle-aged haiku.
Tramp stamps in Cabo
Are now sliding down my ass
Who the hell was Steve?
Glasses on my head
Now where did I put those things?
Squint, mother****er
Husband snores softly
Rhythmically for 15 years
Pillows smother fast
Mouthy teenagers
Somewhere, my mom is laughing
I should send flowers
No locks can resist
A 5-year-old with a pick
So long privacy
Take me, Ambien
How did this tub of frosting
End up in my hair?
Missing the school bus
Forces rush to drop-off line
No bra, officer
Brown spots and bald spots
The new sexy is stretch pants
Next up: Velcro shoes
Swapped little blue pills
Alleve gets rid of headaches
On other levels
Sixty-hour weeks
No time for birthdays or trips
Kids call me Dr. Who?
No more fights, no fuss
After 20 years of bliss
Silent glaring wins
Late night at the club
But proved our bitchin' dance moves
Worth buying in bulk
Mom herds and play dates
Sippy cups with chardonnay
Yoga mat standoffs
Helicopter moms
Hover over science fair
They'll win it this time
Gave up on yoga
Pulled hamstring unrolling mat
The downward dog woofed
Tanned, toned checkout boy
My cougar claws ACTIVATE
Stop calling me Ma'am