Posted in babies, fixed poems on November 18, 2009|
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(by request from a dad of a baby boy – fix the poem that accompanies the Beba Bean Pee-Pee Teepee, because it’s not only sexist, its meter is sadly offputting to customers.)
I’ve reprinted the original for your convenience:
Changing a baby girl is not all glitz and glory;
Changing a baby boy is another horror story!
You hold his feet with one hand and the diaper with the other
The whole time praying “Please don’t pee on your mother.”
Here’s the fix I’ve made for the fine folks at Beba Bean, who are welcome to use it as they see fit.
Changing a baby’s not all glitz and glory
And if it’s a boy it’s one big horror story!
While holding his feet up you murmur this plea,
“Please little baby, please don’t pee on me.”
And here is the poem I wrote about the experience with my remaining 9 minutes:
I click on a link.
It’s a wang teepee, ick.
I gotta tell ya
Babies are sick.
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Posted in babies on February 16, 2009|
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(by request – I want a poem about how baby showers and babies and siblings with lots of babies just make your uterus want to curl up in the corner and weep softly, shivering. And there’s no clock ticking. And people keep looking at you while you hold the baby and wondering why you don’t look sincere when you emphatically agree that babies smell more lovely than anything. And it’s not that you don’t like kids and don’t want kids. You just aren’t ready to stop being a kid, and that’s ok. Maybe some people aren’t in the mood for life’s little miracle and you can hold your own baby and I’ll just look at it from here and sip my wine. Something that captures that general essence.)
The silence descends on all souls in the room
A stillness that comes, as it seems, from the tomb
And all eyes are on me, they glare through the gloom
At my unsympathetic and unprepared womb.
I’m holding her baby, its face has gone red.
“Don’t you think he smells like an angel?” she said.
I answered, “If ‘angel’ means ‘poop.'” in my head.
And I wished I could go grab a cocktail instead.
And now they’re transfixed in an unpleasant stare,
Because I was slow to remark on his hair
And when asked if I knew any babe half as fair
I looked at the imp and replied “I don’t care.”
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