What I Signed On For

My hair is sticking out
at odd angles.
Not shiny or sweet-smelling.
The Pantene glow eludes me.
My mom would say
a rat's nest...
I imagine tiny, clawed feet
dancing in my hair.
Does this happen while
I'm sleeping?

My glasses are foggy
from baking
from baby sneezes
from kisses
and cuddles.
No make-up to be seen
from here to Timbuktu.
Which is funny because
I've never been.

I'm still in my pajamas
And it's almost time for Oprah.
Not that I watch it...
I'm curled around my baby
sleeping snorily in my arms.
And I doze off, too,
while Rod Decker yells
something incoherent
like the darling loony he is.
Only to be awoken by
the five year old diving under the bed
in eager anticipation of Daddy's arrival,
heralded by the click of the lock.