This time it is me again,
in a room of friends
or a room of strangers.
At the door of my son’s preschool
when he shouts ‘don’t like preschool’
the whole way there,
and leaps from the buggy board
and runs off down the road,
and I hand him over, howling
and I have to turn from him
and walk out of the door.
Or he is as good as gold,
the whole morning,
and holds it together
until he stands there,
coat off,
ready for the day
but then turns to me and
quietly starts to cry,
burying his face in my knee.
EDIT: A later version of this poem appears in ‘There You Are’, a collection of 34 hand lettered and illustrated poems about motherhood. You can find it in my Etsy shop here.
elisabeth pike 