Mama’s Turn

When Mister Sun tells her it’s time to get up,
she gets dressed in her unicorn shirt and pink pants
and makes her way to my room

Her insistent tap tap tap on my arm
is a gentle yet unwelcome alarm,
yanking me from Morpheus’ embrace
and the blessed anaesthesia of sleep

It’s your turn to make my toast
and put on Netflix, she says,
her eyes daring me to deny
my motherly duties

Her voice carries a hint of petulance,
a whiff of accusation,
but she is also desperate to see me up and about,
out of this bed that often swallows me whole

Struggling with the remote control
and slathering too much butter on her bread,
I hobble from the kitchen to her tiny table in the living room,
trying to shake off my Zopiclone hangover
and keep the insidious aches at bay—
and off my face

My therapist calls it compassion fatigue
and says my five year old often withholds hugs
and gives me a hard time because
she is scared about whether I will always
be there for her

I digest this along with my prescription painkillers
and busy myself rounding up her coat, snow pants,
hat, mitts and neck warmer

Please don’t let me pass this down to her

I braid bits of love into the fine strands of her hair
before she goes to school,
sneaking an extra treat into her
Paw Patrol lunch box
along with a yellow post-it note
with smiling stick people
before waving goodbye
and going back to bed