Issue.

Because I love 'em to death, and they sh*t me to tears.

Sweeter faces never peered from Raffaello’s cherubim.
Renoir never rendered eyes like hers; a boy as fine as him.
There’s no sculpture ever chiselled to a more exquisite form;
Alabaster cannot capture cheeks as soft or hugs as warm.
Oh! Those perfect, pinkish piggy-toes! Those little bendy legs!
Those round bellies braced by ticklish ribs, like squirming, fleshy kegs!
For the love of all that’s holy, sacred, blessed and serene,
KEEP THOSE PERFECT LITTLE FINGERS OFF MY FRIKKIN’ TV SCREEN.

When my son was but a shadow of a clutch of cells inside;
My own mother said, “You’re going to be a MUMMY!” and I cried.
I was daughter, sister, niece and friend, but this was unexplored:
Surely being someone’s Mum is life’s most wonderful reward.
Sure enough, when ‘Um-mum-mum’ escaped from toothless baby lips
And ‘I love you, Mum’ was whispered, something nice in me did flips.
Whether spoken, yelled or whimpered, ‘Mummy’ whisks dark moods away;
BUT FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, DO I HAVE TO HEAR IT FIFTY TIMES A DAY?

From that first drawn breath, that plaintive gasp, the rending of the cord;
I vowed always to ensure they were protected and adored;
That for all my years upon this Earth, ‘til mortal forces win;
We’d be ever joined, if not by warm embrace, by love and kin.
I will never not be part of them, they’ll never part from me;
Our unyielding bond shall not be breached by distance, land or sea.
From the instant of their birth beyond the day they’re fully grown;
IN THE MEANTIME, COULD I PLEASE JUST USE THE BATHROOM ON MY OWN???