Mam, Mam, Mam

Mam,
what are we doing today?

Morning has barely found the curtains,
breakfast bowls still waiting in the sink,
one small body already dressed
for everywhere at once.

Mam,
where are we going today?

Shoes appear in the hallway.
Then disappear again.

A cardigan is abandoned
somewhere between upstairs
and the front door.

Mam,
can I bring this?

This, apparently,
is three dolls,
a stone,
two bracelets,
a colouring book
and something very important
wrapped in a tissue.

Mam,
what are you doing?

Trying to finish one small thing
before another begins.

Moving the toy from the middle of the floor
and tripping over it
the next time I pass.

Wiping splashes of mud from the glass
only to find, behind the plants,
you'd painted muddy kisses,
brushed carefully across the window.

Leaving them there.

Mam,
can I help?

So a job is invented.

Something important enough
for little hands,

something slow enough
to do together,

and when it is finished
you stand a little taller
because you helped Mam work.

Mam,
can you plait Barbie’s hair?

One plait.

Then another.

Then apparently
the first one was wrong.

Mam,
can you play with me?

For five minutes.

Which becomes ten.

Which becomes—

Mam?

Mam.

Mam!

Look.

Mam, look.

Look what I can do.

Mam, Mam,
did you see me?

Did you see me?

I did.

So I let you catch me watching.

Clap before you have to ask.

Cheer loudly enough
that your whole face answers.

And suddenly
you do it again,

only bigger this time.

Mam,
can I have some of yours?

Of course.

The best piece somehow
always comes from my plate.

Mam,
where’s my—

Mam,
have you seen—

Mam,
can we—

Mam,
I need—

A drink.

A snack.

A plaster
for something I cannot see.

The exact toy
you have not touched for six months
but desperately need
this very second.

A cuddle
delivered at full running speed,

arms around my middle
before I know you are coming.

Then gone again.

Mam!

What?

I love you.

And before I can hold the words—

Mam,
can I have an ice lolly?

The afternoon sprawls itself
across the house.

Doors open.

Shoes migrate.

Crumbs multiply.

Someone sings the same four words
of the same song
for almost an hour.

There are toys
where toys have already been moved from,

cups beside cups,

wet footprints,

half-finished pictures,

a Barbie without clothes,

and a sock
with no known relation
to any other sock in the house.

Mam,
watch this.

Mam,
come here.

Mam,
guess what.

Mam,
I’m hungry.

Mam—

Mam.

Mam.

Mam.

Until somehow
the house softens.

And there you are,

cross-legged on the floor,
lost inside a world
I am not required to organise,

singing quietly to yourself
as you play.

At last,

no one needs anything.

My coffee is still hot.

There are things I could finish.

Things I could tidy.

Five uninterrupted minutes
I have been waiting for
all day.

Instead,

I stay.

Hands wrapped around the mug,

watching without interrupting,

listening to the little voice
that has called for me
a hundred times today

now perfectly happy
without me.

And finding that
I don't want to be anywhere else.

Then you look up.

Mam?

I smile.

Mam,
what are we doing tomorrow?

Tomorrow.

Already.

Another whole day
waiting to be filled.

Another hundred summons.

Another trail of crumbs
and questions
and running hugs.

Another summer day
of being the place
you come looking for.

You climb into me,
warm and tired now,

your voice finally softer
than the day has been.

Mam?

Yes, darling.

You’re the best Mam.

A pause.

The kind children never know
is holding an entire heart.

I love you in all the world.

And suddenly,

every

Mam,

Mam,

Mam

was worth answering.