Tears and Vodka… Teatime with Tiny People.

It’s ‘time for tea!’, I say with glee,
And then the shit hits the dinner-time fan.

I’ve used the wrong plate, it’s three minutes late,
And I’ve interrupted an episode of Driver Dan.

Dinner isn’t even ready, and the winging’s become steady,

It’s becoming impossible to please her…
‘Mother you forget, I’m no fan of the courgette.
In fact I hate anything that isn’t pizza*.’

(*including pizza) 

It’s high-chair carnage, with a snot-laden garnish,
As she decides she’s allergic to everything green.
She’ll scream ’til she’s sick, at the thought of one lick,
Of a pea or a sprout or runner bean. 

It’s time to eat, but there’s secrets in that meat,
She’s spotted more than beige in her bowl.
As I chuck another meal away, I can’t help but pray,
For just one dinner-time without selling my soul…

Time for your food, and I’m not in the bastard mood,
As the fish fingers are met with a grunt.
I take a deep breath, and smile through the mess,
She’s being a right little… runt.

It might be the toddler’s dinner, but I’m not getting thinner,
As I scoff another plate of rejected koftas.
But starting from now, I’ve made a new vow,
At 5pm, I’ll be hitting the tea-time vodkas*.

*and gin. obviously.



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