If I were the mother who wrote a diary for her baby

Telling her first year’s story for her to enjoy later

If I were the mother who made storybooks for her child,

Written and illustrated and bound just for her

If I were the mother who was silly with her children,

Hooting with laughter, clowning around for them

If I were the mother who made pinnies for her girls,

Trousers, blouses, jumpers, a family dressed with love

If I were the mother who made bread like breathing,

Flapjack and brownies always waiting, cake for the eating

If I were the mother who wrote poems and embroidered

Painted while the children slept, created her family’s world

If I were the mother who played recorder at Christmas

Found music in the world and sang it to her children

If I were the mother who was a published author

Every email, every letter a joy to the other

If I were the mother who already having four,

Found out she was having twins, smiled to have two more

If I were the mother who after an exhausting day

Still stayed up til midnight helping with an essay

If I were the mother who took a degree and then a masters

With a 40-mile round trip and twin toddlers in the crèche

If I were the mother who grew her own food

Made meals from the hedgerow and sloe gin too

If I were the mother who came in at 4am

Gently took the newborn from her sleepless daughter’s arms

If I were the mother who with a broken rib

Lifted her grandsons from their chair, or off the baby swing

If I were the mother who was all the things above,

I would be the mother who gave me birth.

To my dearest mother, the original Wry Mummy.