Pasta

You fail every day to make them feminist men,

The domestic is boring and nothing to them.

Food on their plates, clean clothes in their drawers,

Warm beds to sleep in and hoovered bedroom floors.

You’ve created two Princelings, spoiled rotten boys,

When you ask them for help all they hear is white noise.

This is what you’ve realised and it pisses you off,

The home is a place where they don’t give a toss

about the emotional labour, unpaid but expected,

The cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing you’ve sadly perfected,

Or the million other tasks that keep life ticking along –

You’re a Mother and apparently this is your theme song.

You know you can’t change this, it’s bigger than you,

Patriarchy has won, turned you into a shrew,

Where you reproduce every stereotype and are a nagging witch

You wish that the Home didn’t make you a bitch.

 

Last week you tried cooking with son no. 2,

‘It’s not rocket science’ you told him ‘it’s a skill that you

will need in the future, so you can survive day by day.’

He resented your tone so you both walked away.

You went to the pub, had a few calming drinks,

When you came home there were dishes lining the sink,

He’d tackled cooking pasta, but the water boiled away,

Regardless they ate it, with pesto, so he could say:

‘It wasn’t that difficult, you see I’m not dumb.’

‘Who’s cleaning the dishes?’ you’d asked of your sons,

‘Well I cooked, so you wash’, the eldest sighs but agrees,

Fills the sink with hot water and swiftly proceeds.

‘Now this is more like it!’ you grin at them both,

Their own hunger had forced them towards culinary growth,

Maybe there is hope for their future after all,

Maybe they won’t be sexist douchebag screwballs…