Insomniac pome, redux (see ailbhe, 25 Oct 2004)

There is a hippie in my head
With wind-chimes in her hair
Who warns "A section means you're weak -
It shows you do not care."
She peers from out her beaded fringe
To mock my "green" credentials;
"It's not enough," she coldly says,
"To honestly like lentils.
You must suffer for your love,
To prove your worth as Mother.
The bath of child-bed blood's the way;
Earth-Mothers know no other."

But I have chosen to accept
That I am not a Goddess
And it is, for me, enough to have
My babies judge my prowess.
I want to give my children all -
The born, the planned, the dreams -
A healthy, strong and loving mum
In ways within my means.
That means I must agree to choose
The uncool "science" route
And learn to bear superior glares
From those with young like fruit.

[Ed. Have had amusing image of babies dropping off like apples from stems, painless and natural - whole orchards full of pregnant woman/baby-trees, and white-coated obs wandering around with trugs and stethoscopes. OK, amusing and grotesque.]