05/20/2014 07:04 pm ET Updated Jul 20, 2014

Middle-Aged Haiku

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