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They said it would happen when he was born,

but I laughed and put them all to scorn.

I was so proud of my own little boy,

so cute and so good...an absolute joy.

They said just wait...it's bound to set in,

and they sat around waiting for it to begin.

I meanwhile enjoyed motherhood to the hilt,

but not, thanks to them, without feelings of guilt.

I was so happy, which isn't the norm,

and as hard as I tried, I just couldn't conform.

So I kept on and watched my son grow big and strong,

and still I was haunted--something was wrong.

Years have gone by, and I'm happy to say,

it finally happened just yesterday.

I can't tell you my feelings--relief and delight,

to know at last that I'm really all right.

It's all thanks to my son--he's just reached his teens,

he smokes, he's lazy and wears dirty jeans.

His room's a disaster--his grades are atrocious,

is this the same boy we once call precocious?

I must confess in all sincerity

this isn't the offspring I planned for posterity,

But at least he's brought me a normal reaction,

which in turn produces some satisfaction.

So depressed as I am, I'll tell you the news -

I've finally got...the post-partum blues!

 

Agatha Stanard

Do you ever reflect with amusement or fright?

On the things that come into your head at night?

By day you function with average sanity,

But in bed you are subject to total inanity.

For no apparent rhyme nor reason you suddenly go loco;

A strange name all at once pops into your head, a name like Pepelemoco.

Names you haven't thought of in years will inexplicably be there,

Like Heile Selassie and Lily St. Cyr, Una Merkel and Robespierre.

Some days you try to think of a name; by night time it's driving you crazy,

But jump into bed and put down your head; there it is, John Cameron Swayze.

You turn off the lights; that's the start of your ravings, the rush of the ghosts to gether;

You lie there resisting Ramon Navarro or rapping with Cotton Mather.

It's not just people who come and go, but places and things as well;

My husband recalls the night I woke screaming, "what the hell is a bagatelle?"

One day we talked of some old-time friends,

Where they'd moved caused a controversy,

But at 3 AM I sat up and yelled,

"I've got it...Secaucus, New Jersey."

It's hard to explain where they come from, these thoughts

In fact it's a little bit scary

To lie there and hear yourself repeating

Uta Hagen loves Primo Canary.

But that's better than waking in great concern regarding your burial plot.

Were there four or five gravesites when grandmother died, is there one left for me or not?

In daylight hours, I couldn't care less.

Such thoughts would be morbid, absurd,

But there in the night, it doesn't seem right

Not to find out where I'll be interred.

Things that normally aren't worth a tinker's damn

In the night seem of major concern;

You've got to know now who wrote Rose Marie;

Was it Hammerstein or Kern?

One night I pored over almanacs almost 'til break of day,

Just trying to find out who played the lead in The Portrait of Dorian Gray.

These thoughts in the night will hound you, harass you

Although I don't think they'll harm ya,

But I'd just as soon sit and stare at the moon

With a good, healthy case of insomn'a.

 

Agatha Stanard