BY CAROLINE BICKS

Shall I compare this to a bed of nails?
It is more painful and more treacherous:
Rough judgment fuels my fear that I shall fail,
My crappy crafts are all too infamous.
A bed of nails tortures all at once;
Pincushions mark a thousand tiny deaths.
And every stitch reminds me I'm a dunce,
Since when I basted backwards in home ec.
While other daughters shall be draped divine,
Mine will be a clothespin goddess tripping;
And where they shall have props homemade and fine,
She will hold a bow of duct tape ripping.
O, how will I fend off her tears of brine?
Screw it. I'll just buy the things online.

Caroline's essays have been seen and heard on babble.com, in the book and show Afterbirth: Stories You Won't Read in a Parenting Magazine (St. Martin's Press), in the New York Times, and on NPR's All Things Considered. She is an English Professor at Boston College, where she teaches Shakespeare and Women's Studies. For fun, she blogs about how the Bard meets suburban mommy life at Everyday Shakespeare. Caroliine also has a regular column on errant parent with Michelle Ephraim. She can be reached at: bicks@bc.edu.

We received lots of hilarious poetry for our First Annual Limerick and Haiku Summer Poetry Contest. And, of course, nothing warms our hearts more than seeing disgruntled parents putting forth their best sarcasm. All of our finalists and winners will receive an "errant parent" trucker hat and an "i'll bring the whine" bumper sticker. Congratulations!

Winner, Best Haiku

MATERNITY PANTS by Doug Cox

Low cut, secret fit,
Free tube of hemorrhoid cream
With ev'ry purchase.

Doug Cox was born and raised in Fresno. His poems have recently appeared in Apalachee Review, Chiron Review, Crab Orchard Review, New Madrid, and Suss. He currently lives with his wife and their 2-month-old son within driving distance of an enormous Motherhood Maternity outlet. He can be reached at: bdougcox@gmail.com.

Winner, Best Limerick

MIXED EMOTIONS by Ross Murray

This bundle of joy lying next to me
Is a gift sent from heaven and meant to be.
I'm reeling in bliss,
But still kind of pissed,
At the doctor who botched my vasectomy.

Ross Murray's weekly column appears on Log Cabin Chronicles. His humor pieces have also appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency and The Big Jewel, among other publications. He lives in Stanstead, Quebec with four children and several pets he doesn't much care for. The pets, that is. Ross can be reached at: ross_murray@sympatico.ca. His collection of columns, You're Not Going to Eat That, Are You?, is available through Townships.

Other Haiku and Limerick Finalists

CHEERY O'S by Todd Atchison

Comfy blue sofa
It feels strange having hot sex
Where kids eat breakfast
 
THE DUEL by Todd Atchison

Deadline approaches
How can I write and ignore
fierce lightsaber fights?

After being a stay-at-home dad/house-husband/grad student for seven years, Todd Atchison's muse was baby-wiped, then brutally sacrificed upon the altar of academic discourse. In 2008, he received a Ph.D. in American Literature -- finally completing a dissertation when his toddler would nap. When he's not donning a cape to play Zurg, he slowly reacclimates himself to the working world. He can be reached at: s.t.atchison@gmail.com.

POT-ULANCE by Gargi Mehra

Every time little Hiya felt pressured,
To her pants, with her fingers, she gestured.
We'd whisk her off to the loo,
Thinking she'd do a poo,
Turns out we were just being pestered.

Gargi is a writer from India. Over the last six years, she has written humor pieces for leading Indian newspapers and magazines. Her fiction has appeared in Everday Fiction and Six Sentences. Visit her blog: Gargi's World.

SALINE DREAMS by Bill Newman

There's a craze that is sweeping the nation
For girls upon their graduation.
So, I'll take out a loan,
Second-mortgage our home,
For my daughter's new breast augmentation.

JUST SHOOT ME by Bill Newman

I really can't stomach Diego
Or Dora or Elmo or Legos.
In fact, I detest
All the things kids like best,
So, yes, I will leggo your Eggo.

EARL GREY AIN'T GONNA CUT IT by Bill Newman

Is it really so wrong around four
To open the Frigidaire door,
And mix Jagerbombers
(They make me much calmer)
'Cause carpool is really a chore?

Bill Newman thinks all children should learn how to hang metal blinds, aerate the lawn, and mix martinis for Daddy by age 4. Is that so wrong? Bill doesn't have a blog, but he does have a hernia.

HEADBOARDS by Ross Murray

The baby's asleep, and the boys
Are snoozing surrounded by toys,
While middle-aged lovers
Skulk under the covers
Trying to have sex without noise.

Ross Murray's weekly column appears on Log Cabin Chronicles. His humor pieces have also appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency and The Big Jewel, among other publications. He lives in Stanstead, Quebec with four children and several pets he doesn't much care for. The pets, that is. Ross can be reached at: ross_murray@sympatico.ca.His collection of columns, You're Not Going to Eat That, Are You?, is available through Townships.

BY ADAM HUGHES

GOING TO CHURCH
You'd think we were setting out on the hajj,
packing our bags for golden-roofed Medina
and prophet-kissed Mecca. Three trips to the car,
Bibles and baby toys, diaper bags and enough
lanolin for a troupe of midwives. Part dad,
part preacher, part Sherpa, we'll get to the summit
eventually. But I can't guarantee we won't leave
something behind.
 
Just please, don't let it be the Boppy.
 
Packed and finally ready to depart, church starts
in 10 minutes, 11 minutes away. Something
tells me I'm not in the right frame of mind to preach.
I'd blame it on the baby, but she's not the one
who bought all this crap. Halfway to church
 
we remember the diaper bag.

WATCHING YOU SLEEP
Close your fairy-kissed eyes;
I'll be here when you wake up.
Dream your dreams that I can only
imagine, images I can't comprehend.
I watch your mouth move, eyes fluttering
and wonder what visions you see,
what nocturnal tales you could
tell me. Do you dream of an endless
 
string of cars and bottles and dry diapers?
I should sleep too, but I can't
resist just watching you. You'll wake
soon enough. In the flash of a lightning
bug, it's morning. I wake you up
to begin the new day and you cry
at the sight of the sun.
 
But it's okay, Dad. The next sleep is only
17 hours away.

Adam Hughes is a writer and pastor from Lancaster, Ohio. He is a graduate of Ohio Christian University and his poety has appeared in several online and print journals, including: The Houston Literary Review, Flutter Poetry Journal, The Boston Literary Magazine, and Gloom Cupboard. He also sits on the editorial board for Triggerfish Critical Review. He enjoys being outside, reading, and spending time with his wife and infant daughter. He can be reached at tatelestai@yahoo.com.

(With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)

BY KATE HAAS

Once upon a midnight weepy, as I pondered, oh so sleepy,
Over many curious volumes of much-studied baby lore,
It was Leach -- or was it Sears? -- on whose pages fell my tears,
O, but naught could quell my fears or lift the burden that I bore.
Would sleep elude me evermore?

Of those authors I was wary in that fateful January,
For I'd scanned each separate page and had discovered no sure cure.
And my weary brain was yearning, my desire for sleep was burning,
Yet how soon would I be learning that I had another chore!
Would it last forevermore?

Twas then I heard a wailing -- but perhaps my ears were failing --
O, perhaps the babe still slept, safe behind the nursery door!
Curses! No, I'd hoped in vain, he was crying (was it pain?),
And the question in my brain was: would he sleep? (He did before.)
Quoth the baby, "Nevermore."

"Baby," said I, "Child of trouble! Why should all our woes be double?
Why should both of us be wakeful on the Night's Plutonian shore?
If you must awake, well fine, but the night is also mine.
All this nursing makes me whine -- go back to sleep now, I implore!"
Quoth the baby, "Nevermore."

"Husband!" I called. "Be not dismayed. The books say this curse will fade."
"You mean someday I'll get laid?" he muttered, then commenced to snore.
Menfolk -- they want stimulation. Babies -- they demand lactation.
Want maternal adoration? Give me sleep, hours by the score.
Quoth the baby, "Nevermore."

Damn you Sears (William and Martha) sitting round your cozy hearth,
With those seven slumbering babies (and you're no doubt planning more).
Your smug sleep tips leave me cursing (we've tried the "father nursing"),
But the night is fast dispersing. O, how long will this endure?
Quoth the baby, "Evermore."

Then methought I heard a noise -- nay, a sweetly speaking Voice,
And it prophesied that soon these midnight troubles would be o'er!
If I heard the voice aright, my babe will someday sleep all night,
O, unspeakable delight! Will I no longer nights deplore?
Quoth the baby, "Nevermore."

"Voice!" I cried, "O, Phantom friend! Do you say these nights will end?
Tell me truly, is there hope still for this babe I so adore?"
Then it foretold nights unbroken, when those wails would go unspoken,
When I would not be awoken. "Never, Phantom? Are you sure?"
Quoth the Spirit, "Nevermore."

And on spoke the ghostly Seer, bidding me to have good cheer,
Yet it warned me of the Fate that for all parents lies in store.
"This babe will one day yearn for knowledge; he will venture off to college,
And 'tis then you will acknowledge that you miss those nights of yore.
Yes, you'll miss these hours awake upon the Night's Plutonian shore."

"Ha!" quoth Mama, "Nevermore!"

Kate Haas publishes Miranda, a 'zine about motherhood and other adventures. Her essays have appeared in Brain, Child, Babble, Hip Mama and the Toronto Star. This poem appeared first, in a somewhat different form, in Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers. Kate's websites are: Clarity Editing and Miranda.

BY BETH TRUSLEY

I was about to cut my husband and abuse my kids;
they be messin' with the Tuppaware and lost the lids.
Then I caught my husband doin' dishes over the sink;
it made me count to 10, kept me out the clink.

That H1N1, some call it swine flu;
both kids caught it, they be home from schoo'.
So, the kids all sick, they be down in bed;
I be takin' a break, guzzlin' down the red.

Bad Momma inda 8-5-9,
I'm bad but I ain't done time.
I like to talk a little smack and catch a buzz,
but I ain't been busted by the damn ole fuzz.

Husband came in with the pimp hand strong;
'cause he be drinkin' bourbon, out way too long.
Came in with the glitter all over his shirt;
say he didn’t know that peepin' at the stripper hurt.

Spent the afternoon drinkin' on the bar stool;
now I'm waitin' with the other parents in the carpool.
Kids bum-rush the car, yappin' 'bout they day;
now I'm  prayin' we get home, no fuzz along the way.

Bad Momma inda 8-5-9,
I'm bad but I ain't done time.
I like to talk a little smack and catch a buzz,
but I ain't been busted by the damn ole fuzz.

Temporarily solo, Boo away on bidnuss;
dog barkin', kids screamin', and I'm thinkin' F--- THIS!
Unwrapped, about to snap, howlin' at da moon;
I swallow a Valium -- altered state be here soon.

Flashforward: dirty knees from scrubbin' the flo';
cussin' at the dog, whose dirty paws on the door.
Kids come in to help while kissin' my cheek;
the flo' don't matta none, not gonna lose sleep.

Bad Momma inda 8-5-9,
I'm bad but I ain't done time.
I like to talk a little smack and catch a buzz,
but I ain't been busted by the damn ole fuzz.

Check it.

Ch-ch-check it.

Word.

Beth Trusley is the momma of two young'uns and works as an Assistant Property Supervisor for about a dozen apartment communities in Lexington, KY. She can't really say which is more entertaining: raising her kids or watchin' over grown ups who live in the rental properties. (Think Peyton Place on steroids.) When Beth is not working, she enjoys packin' heat, Modelos, and the occasional Camel. She can be reached at: btrusley@gmail.com.

BY ADAM HUGHES

Amniotic exhale,
shock of open air on
quickly drying skin,
placental home left
behind in favor of life
outside uterine walls.

I had spent the last
hour and a half staring
at the purple crown
of your head, wondering
if the rest of you
would be the color
of communion wine.
But I missed

your first post-natal
moments because I was busy
throwing up.

Adam Hughes is a writer and pastor from Lancaster, Ohio. He is a graduate of Ohio Christian University and his poety has appeared in several online and print journals, including: The Houston Literary Review, Flutter Poetry Journal, The Boston Literary Magazine, and Gloom Cupboard. He also sits on the editorial board for Triggerfish Critical Review. He enjoys being outside, reading, and spending time with his wife and infant daughter. He can be reached at tatelestai@yahoo.com.

BY KATHRYN A. HIGGINS

When to the silver SUV I schlepped,
pushing a cart that veered to the left,
I reached for keys which I usually kept
hooked to my bag to foil theft.

I pushed the button, heard the chirp;
although a distance it seemed to cross.
I called to my son, the little twerp,
and began unloading milk and sauce.

"Mom," said Matthew with concern,
a luxury for which I had no time.
"Get in the car!" I snapped in turn,
and to my door I bent to climb.

I went to put key in ignition,
when all at once I felt a chill;
a horrible lack of recognition
of seat, of cup, of car, of nil!

"Where's my stuff?" I asked my boy,
who'd climbed uncertainly in the back.
"I do not appreciate this decoy.
My dirty towel? My bills? My snack?"

"Mom," he tried again; I turned
to see what new crime he contemplated.
But when I saw the back I learned,
and from fault he was then exculpated.

This gleaming, shiny, silver jeep,
with tidy mug and Burberry scarf,
did not match at all my heap --
festooned with garbage, flecked with barf.

Christened by my kids and me,
with dirt and gum and single socks,
my car just simply could not be
this one that held designer frocks.

"Hush!" I said now that I knew
we were in the wrong SUV;
would this one's owner take mine in lieu,
knowing what I did of me?

My senses were on combat high
as I reviewed our situation --
how we got in there and why;
I prepared for our evacuation.

Then I saw my old jalopy
facing hers, as if a mirror
had found a twin, just not as sloppy --
cleaner, neater, richer, dearer.

I'll take her car, I paused to think,
and trade in for a better life;
I'll bag my husband and my shrink
and be a better sort of wife.

Yes, I'll take it and I'll flee
away from my suburban jailors:
husband, housework, children three,
laundry, cooking, coupon-mailers.

I flipped the visor mirror and saw
the doppelganger wanna-be,
a disheveled blonde with frowning maw --
an evil, tired side of me.

I slumped back in her leather seat,
noticed her Gucci sunglasses there;
imagined her country club so neat --
God, we'd feel like asses there.

Swaddled in her premium automobile,
I was o'ertaken by daydreams of:
Manolo Blahnik stiletto heels,
lunches at the Golden Dove.

Benefits aboard a yacht,
decked out in Dolce and Gabbana;
"Some little nothing I just bought,"
sipping Cristal with Ivana.

In this reverie I sat
in a sort of mental attack,
when "Mom" I heard again from Matt --
who'd been so quiet in the back.

I turned to see my little son,
who looked at me with eyes so wide --
my innocent and trusting one,
not knowing I was Mr. Hyde.

I realized then that no matter how pampered,
filled with serenity and joy,
my doppelganger's life was hampered
by lack of my kids -- girls and boy.

If she had kids, and so she did
according to her decorations,
despite their brilliance, mine outbid
them in winning my adorations.

I could not make the trade, I sighed;
"Let's Go!" I said to my little Pea,
when coming out of the store I spied
a thinner replica of me.

"Get out!" I hissed and grabbed the food
and toilet paper by the load;
I snatched the cart, and Matt I shooed
out of the car and down the road.

Again my key, my car chirped back;
I hustled my little boy inside.
He found his book, his toy, his snack;
and there he waited while I spied.

My double came and claimed her car,
no inkling did she have of me;
despite the door I left ajar
and my lost can of Pepsi Free.

Tossing her designer purse,
she mounted her shiny, silver throne.
I ducked and hissed a little curse,
as my steering wheel hit my bone.

She drove off talking on her phone
about exciting things no doubt.
I said to Matthew: "Let’s go home"
and "Behave or you'll get a timeout."

Filled with a newfound thankfulness, I drove
home to my modest little dwelling;
and with new eagerness I strove
to find my children without yelling.

"Come and give your mom a hug!"
I said to urchins one, two, three.
"Wait -- what have you done to the rug?"
And so ended our brief jubilee.

Kathryn A. Higgins is writer and mom living with her two children in Connecticut. She recently received her MFA in Writing from Sarah Lawrence College. Her publishing credits include: McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Real Simple Magazine, health.com, Sanskrit, farmhousemagazine.com, Whatever, and Musings; she has also written a regular column for the Connecticut Post, as well as features for various newspapers, and is a reader for the Paris Review. You can reach her at: kathrynahiggins@aol.com.

BY BILL NEWMAN

JAY JAY THE JET PLANE
oh, god, the horror
throw acid in my eyeballs!
please, change the channel

FUNDRAISING DOES NOTHING MORE THAN INTERRUPT THE PROGRAM MY KID WAS WATCHING BEFORE HE DECIDED TO START INTERRUPTING ME
are you nuts? donate?
for a free, friggin' book bag?
what are you smoking?

EPISODES I'D LIKE TO SEE
clifford gets the runs
mr. rogers drinks and drives
elmo learns to "swing"

CAILLOU
oh, screw you, caillou
you want some cheese with that whine?
canadians. geez!

Bill Newman misses Zoom. And the original Electric Company. He used to walk a mile to school in a blizzard wearing snowshoes made out of tin foil. He's giving his kids a leaf blower for Christmas.

BY KATIE MOORE

FIREWORKS
Fireworks
waste my time
with noise,
a bunch of flash,
beer-reeking
patriotism
in truck beds,
blanket-littered
fields, camp chairs.
Fireworks
make children
cry, pee their
pants, channel
demons. They
will never be
as cool as you
thought they were
when you were nine,
and afterward
the traffic sucks.

BEESTUNG
Beestung,
crying
in front of perfectly strange strangers,
shameful,
red cheeked.
I can't look at any of them now.
They didn't say anything,
not one of them asked
if I was OK,
which I wasn't,
or if they could
do anything,
which they couldn't,
which isn't the point.
I would do it,
be kind,
for them.
I forgot how much it hurts,
the bee sting,
and the being outsider-in-the-middle,
a target,
for laughing, pointing, poking at,
for patting on the head, for pity,
for drawing comparisons,
and feeling superior.
You know what,
snobby rich PTA ladies,
with smirks and upturned noses,
with pearls and Prada bags?
That bee didn't sting me
because I'm a peasant.
I just sat on it.

Katie Moore is a writer, mother, and wife. In that order. (Sorry, husband.) She has divorce-worthy affairs with words and doesn't feel bad about it. Most of her time is spent editing The Legendary, a place for weirdos to put their words. She can be reached at: katie@downdirtyword.com.