Days 2017

Days 2017

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

When Hot Chocolate was Romantic.

When hot chocolate was romantic
I didn't have five children who all wanted some
(Especially if only one of them had wanted it to begin with...)
and who joyously offered a cup to the neighbor kids
(what can I say, they are my kids and also must proffer goodies)
or I wasn't concerned about running out of milk for breakfast
(because then I'd have to take my Dodge Yak back to WalMart)
I also wouldn't have to point out the cons to using a drinking straw
(consequently causing tears and desperate pleas for just this once)
or mop up puddles of the brew from my tabletop
(because of course, they must stir their own)
There wouldn't be five varieties displayed on the counter
(I would never drink the chocolate mint kind or that hard marshmallow kind)
I wouldn't be putting away again those five varieties, six cups, six spoons, one jug missing a lid
(at least this time I held strong about the drinking straws!)
I wouldn't be smirking about the calcium intake of said children
(at least four of them--still trying to identify the culprits who only had a sip)
and I would have had a cup myself.

A cup myself.  MMMMMmmyself.
(probably something soup-sized with painted pink flowers on the side)
White chocolate or spiced chocolate or milk chocolate.
(look ma, no straw.  I wouldn't even slurp from the spoon)
I'd fit my face over the mug and feel my skin breathe.
(although if my skin was breathing, that probably means I'd burn my tongue)
My chilly fingers would finally get warm and I'd sip
(did I mention I was also watching TV?  at a reasonable volume?  not needing closed captioning?)
Don't forget the fuzzy socks, the candle on the table
(Maybe lots of little short unpractical candles.)
Husband can be there, too,
(as long as he brings a soft blanket and doesn't change the channel.)
Drink it to the dregs.

Some people need their chocolate to beat them over the head.
(Not me.  I'm now versed in subtlety.)
I don't need a cup to warm my hands
(Who knew dishsoap could be so luxurious in December).
A candle on the table doesn't hold a candle (ha) to a gleaming pan of monkey bread
(Surrounded by cheering monkeys)
Bing Crosby can get a little, well, boring
(Which is why "You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch" gets played over and over)
The house never looks so clean and shiny and I sing
(I think it's the extra light coming in the windows from the snow)
Seven pairs of boots matched in the closet
(Or drying on the mat from a great day's play)
Sons AND neighbor kids shoveling the driveway
(won't husband be surprised?)
Yes, frozen feet and socks that don't stay dry indoors
(is nowhere dry?)
But cold feet on husband shins is a test of true love.
(and mine always passes.)

Would you know?  They kept their promise.
(The cups put away, spoons too)
The garage door opening rivals the Christmas carols
(Home in time for dinner)
Now five heads are counting sugar plums and I'm by myself
(but I think I've had my cup today.)

1 comment:

The Haynes Herd said...

Quite the poet Jackie. Isn't motherhood great!