Some poems are safety valves for letting off steam, to help relieve the pressure on a working machine.  I’ve now got enough distance from the baby stage to share these archived tales which helped to dissipate my rage.


Missing Peace

My mind’s a murderous maelstrom, and I’m hoovering

Then a rattle brings me back from the abyss

Something big got lost inside this vacuum

I’m hoping it’s not anything I’ll miss


I’m contemplating arson at the playgroup

There really is no need to be alarmed

Give me the peace of an evacuated building

And only trains with faces will be harmed


I’m thinking of absconding from the school run

I don’t want anyone to make a fuss

Procedures will take care of both the children

While I drift off to somewhere silent on the bus



When the children were young, a classic feminist novel was mysteriously delivered to our house…


The postwoman hands you a parcel

You can open it and look at the big picture, share your gift with the woman next door or you can continue to recite your stories..

How you were just on a work call while changing a nappy and the soup boiled over and nobody is dressed yet and there’s a full potty on the doormat

Sort through your day of caring and domestic duties until you recall a point where too many demands came at once.  Save these stories for the telling and call them funny.  It’s all about the juggling and laughing while you’re struggling

There’s a knock on the door while you’re feeding the baby.  As you get up you are simultaneously aware of your piles and your stitches.  Your toddler rushes around you shouting ‘Daddy, Daddy Daddy’.  Not for another three hours will that be a reality

As you reach the door, the baby’s head turns and 100ml, or 60 calories, or 30 minutes of breast milk is coughed up onto your work shoes

The postwoman hands you a parcel.  You can tell your story, or you can open it


©tamingtheoctopus 2020