They said motherhood is soft light,
And clean white smiles.
They did not tell me about noise.
About toys under my feet.
About loving someone:
Who just poured soup on your head,
And calls it sharing.
My house is a small market.
Cries bargain with laughter.
Sleep is stolen in bits.
I hide snacks like gold.
I talk to myself and answer back.
This is not madness.
This is training.
Every child is a tiny king.
They rule with crumbs and tears.
They ask why the sky is blue,
And why bedtime is evil.
Their logic is strong and strange.
I lose every argument,
And still win the day.
From the mouths of elders comes this truth,
“Ọmọ ni ayọ̀, Ọmọ ni wahala”
(A Child Is Joy, A Child Is Trouble).
Both sit on the same chair.
Both eat from the same plate.
When one leaves,
The other follows.
Some days I feel like a hero.
Other days like a clown.
I forget names, keys, time.
I remember wounds, fears, dreams.
I shout, then laugh at myself.
Because if I do not laugh,
I will sleep standing up.
At night, when the house is quiet,
I watch them breathe.
The mess is still there.
The tiredness too.
But so is the miracle.
Motherhood is not perfect.
It is love with jokes.
