I did not write this. This was written in the sixties by my boyfriend's grandmother, God rest her beautiful soul. All rights go to her, Nancy Duncan. Thank you Nancy for a lovely poem.

People talk about the "dead of winter"... but to a mother with sic kids, winter is alive and growing... right around my feet! Runny noses, jelly bread, punching and gouging... right around my feet. Sticky, whining humanity asserting itself, demanding... demanding to be heard, to be seen. Right now. Right NOW! Around my feet, tiny dimpled hands chain me to the stove. Little curly heads weld my hands to the mop handle. Chapped lips, like rosebuds with thorns are clamped tightly to my breast. Big, ten and twelve year olds are insisting on sleigh riding; wind chill, thirty below. A mob of would be dictators trying to overthrow my fragile democracy. Bubbling, boiling, bullying brats... terrorizing dog and cat. Where is that son of a bitch on his white horse!? Snotty, snorting, slurping little gang... swilling my good, nourishing soup. Loving, laughing, hugging and tugging me to a place where farts are funny, and where mole hills and piles of dirty laundry do make menacing mountains. Bathtime and hurricane Hugo have a lot in common Dirty dishes, dirty diapers, and a stopped up commode. Where's the plunger? Where is the DAMN plunger!? Need I ask? Brother's using it to pp up the kitchen tiles, one by one right now. Snarling, Snatching, grabbing and shouting...

"It's mine!...

..."He won't share!"...

..."Mama, Make him!"...

Bonding, melting, blending... but never coming closer than their last name. Combining looks and traits, flashes of all in one and one for all.

Lord, I need Spring as bad as I need a bath.