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Love Poems for People with Children

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In the spirit of his wildly popular New Yorker pieces and the New York Times bestseller Love Poems for Married People , Thurber-pr... Weiterlesen
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Beschreibung

In the spirit of his wildly popular New Yorker pieces and the New York Times bestseller Love Poems for Married People , Thurber-prize winner John Kenney presents a hilarious new collection of poetry for people with children. With the same brilliant wit and hilarious realism that made Love Poems for Married People such a hit, John Kenney is back with a brand new collection of poems, this time taking on the greatest "joy" in life: children. Kenney covers it all, from newborns, toddlers, and sleep deprivation, to the terrible twos, terrible tweens, and terrible teens. A parent's love is unconditional, but sometimes that button can't help but be pushed. Between back to school shopping, summer vacations that never end, the awkwardness of puberty, the inevitable post-college moving back in, and more, a parent's job is never done, whether they like it or not.

One of Fredericksburg Free Lance Star's Best Books of 2019 

“[A] hilarious look into parenting.”TODAY 

“Often profound, often hilarious, Kenney captures what it's like to raise a human being from the ground up.”Cleveland Scene

“[Love Poems for People with Children] will be immediately relatable to all parents and a much needed laugh. So the next time you're hiding out in a public restroom, like the subject in one of the poems, give this book a read.”Parkersburg News & Sentinel

“Perfect as a stocking stuffer for that soon-to-be-parent or the already-a-parent-I-never-realized-how-good-my-hair-looked-unshowered-for-four-days on your holiday list....These little gems make life glow a little brighter.”Fredericksburg Free Lance Star

Autorentext

John Kenney is the New York Times bestselling author of the humorous poetry collection Love Poems for Married People, and the novels Talk to Me and Truth in Advertising, which won the Thurber Prize for American Humor. He has worked for many years as a copywriter. He has also been a contributor to The New Yorker magazine since 1999. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.



Klappentext

In the spirit of his wildly popular New Yorker pieces and the New York Times bestseller Love Poems for Married People, Thurber-prize winner John Kenney presents a hilarious new collection of poetry for people with children.

With the same brilliant wit and hilarious realism that made Love Poems for Married People such a hit, John Kenney is back with a brand new collection of poems, this time taking on the greatest "joy" in life: children. Kenney covers it all, from newborns, toddlers, and sleep deprivation, to the terrible twos, terrible tweens, and terrible teens. A parent's love is unconditional, but sometimes that button can't help but be pushed. Between back to school shopping, summer vacations that never end, the awkwardness of puberty, the inevitable post-college moving back in, and more, a parent's job is never done, whether they like it or not.



Leseprobe

My six-year-old got hold of my phone

 

My apologies, Reverend.

 

My six-year-old

 

got hold

 

of my phone

 

and sent you

 

142

 

poop emojis.

 

Please know

 

that this in no way

 

reflects my opinion of you

 

or the Church.

 

(Although it does make me wonder if there is a god.)

 

To my father-in-law, Lou.

 

No grandparent should ever receive

 

a GIF of Fabio not wearing pants

 

dancing suggestively

 

with the words

 

Let's get it on!

 

I was sure I had deleted that.

 

To my boss, Gary.

 

Did you happen to receive a photo

 

of a baboon's ass

 

with a note reading

 

Found this picture of you?

 

I sent that one.

 

If there were a job interview to have children

 

The interviewer might say

 

I see here that you want children.

 

And you might say, Yes! I'm ready.

 

Great. Are you happy in your marriage?

 

Very. My wife is amazing.

 

Good for you. Just a couple of questions. When's the last time you went to hear live music?

 

Two weeks ago. Last-minute thing. Saw a jazz band.

 

Last time on a plane?

 

Paris, I think. Yes. We went to Paris for four days.

 

Did you sleep on the plane?

 

Yes. It was an overnight flight.

 

Did anyone throw up on you at any time?

 

No. Of course not. Why?

 

Did anyone on the plane wake you suddenly by screaming in your face?

 

What? No.

 

May I ask about the frequency of your sex life?

 

Average, I guess. Five or six times a week.

 

How wonderful. I'd like you to take this paper from me. Do you feel anything?

 

What the hell . . . what is this? It's sticky and it smells.

 

Do you like that feeling?

 

No!

 

Don't be alarmed but I am now going to pour this large glass of orange juice on your pant leg.

 

Jesus Christ! I can't believe you just did that.

 

I'm going to make a very loud, annoying noise in your ear. Tell me if you enjoy it. Ahhhhhhh!!!!

 

What the hell is wrong with you, man?!!

 

Mister Simpson, I have some bad news for you.

 

Who will be the first to get up?

 

3:42 a.m. and the baby is crying.

 

Again.

 

Who will get up first?

 

I know that you

 

know that I

 

am not asleep.

 

I'm just faking.

 

But I also know

 

that you know

 

that I know

 

that you are faking.

 

Because like me

 

you have developed the qualities

 

of an Academy Award-nominated

 

fake sleeper.

 

Who will break?

 

And then you say

 

If you get up, I'll show you my boobs.

 

Done.

 

Quiet time

 

Late now and light low.

 

Stories read, time for bed.

 

Dad, you whisper, why do sumo wrestlers wear diapers?

 

No one knows, buddy. Shhh.

 

Why does the emperor stand behind the catcher?

 

Umpire, pal. Not emperor. Shhh.

 

What happened to the boy who cried wolf?

 

He grew up and works in real estate. Go to sleep.

 

Sleep finally comes.

 

For me

 

briefly.

 

I wake with a start

 

move like a cat

 

head to the door.

 

Wine time.

 

Dad?

 

(Shit! Dammit! Little bastard!)

 

Yes, buddy?

 

In "Rock-a-bye Baby," why is the baby on top of a tree?

 

Because he wouldn't go to sleep.

 

The baby fell out of the tree?

 

He did, yes.

 

And the cradle fell, too?

 

The whole thing. Crashed to the ground. I won't lie, it was bad.

 

Why do we sing that?

 

Because it teaches us an important lesson.

 

What's the lesson?

 

Be quiet or we put you in a tree. Shhh.

 

My breast-feeding breasts

 

I know that to you

 

it might seem like it

 

would be fun for me

 

to have my

 

boobs squeezed

 

as I unpack the groceries.

 

It's not, though.

 

I'm not feeling sexy.

 

And they're sore

 

and full of milk

 

for our baby.

 

Also

 

Look at those jugs

 

is not what I want to hear

 

from you right now. (Ever?)

 

And may I add

 

that there is a time

 

and a place to touch them.

 

And that time was not

 

at your uncle's wake last week.

 

What if I

 

just walked up to you

 

and squeezed your penis?

 

Oh. That was not the answer I was expecting.

 

There isn't a chance in hell we're having sex now, is there?

 

You have a look on your face

 

as you get into bed.

 

Well, I assume you have a look on your face

 

as I can't quite see your face

 

because you haven't looked at me for a while.

 

Ever since we argued.

 

There were two sides, of course.

 

Fine. Maybe just the one side.

 

And maybe I wasn't on it.

 

And maybe I haven't apologized yet

 

because I have the emotional intelligence

 

of a can of gravy.

 

(Your words, but not wrong.)

 

But now you are in your

 

underwear and a T-shirt.

 

And while I can't see your face

 

I can see your butt

 

which looks very nice to me.

 

I assume that my ability to see your butt

 

is a signal from you to me

 

that all is forgiven

 

and that you want to have sex.

 

But it turns out it's not a signal at all.

 

It's just my ability to see.

 

Did I mention I'm sorry? I say

 

attempting to touch your non-signaling butt.

 

Don't even, you say

 

swatting my hand away.

 

Very good then.

 

Signal received.

 

Labor pain

 

After the epidural

 

you managed to nap

 

in the delivery room.

 

And I watched you

 

my lovely wife

 

smiling at the thought of our child

 

but also a little hungry.

 

Did you pack a sandwich or anything?

 

I whispered to you

 

shaking your arm a bit

 

when you didn't respond.

 

So what I did was-

 

because I didn't want to bother you anymore-

 

I went across the street

 

to grab a quick burger and a beer.

 

I decided to sit at the bar

 

because I was kind of tired too.

 

Maybe I was just hungry

 

but it was a really good burger.

 

So then I had a second beer

 

and got to chatting with the bartender.

 

He was the one who suggested

 

that maybe I should get back to the hospital

 

when he found out what was going on.

 

(Great guy.)

 

And while I wasn't technically in the room with you

 

when our son was born

 

I was certainly there in spirit.

 

We should all go back to that bar sometime.

 

I am going to count to three

 

I mean it, young lady.

 

You do NOT want me to count to three.

 

1 . . .

 

2 . . .

 

Dammit.

 

She's not budging.

 

What does one do after three?

 

Go to four?

 

Has anyone ever gone to four?

 

What is the protocol on four?

 

Is it possible to go to five?

 

To ten?

 

What happens at 100?

 

What's the punishment there?

 

A supermax prison in Colorado?

 

I'm going to give you a second chance.

 

Do what I asked and put your things away.

 

No.

 

Put your backpack away.

 

No.

 

Clean up your crayons?

 

No.

 

What are you willing to do?

 

Watch Doc McStuffins?

 

Deal.

 

Privacy please

 

As I sit on the toilet

 

the door opens.

 

There you stand

 

almost two years old.

 

Hi Dad!

 

you say.

 

Hi sweetie

 

I respond.

 

Are you going to the bathroom?

 

you ask.

 

Sure am, I say.

 

But I need some privacy.

 

Close the door please.

 

And you do.

 

From the inside.

 

So, Dad, you ask.

 

What should we talk about?

 

I am fully aware that the wheels on the bus go round and round

 

I get it.

 

I know about the wheels and the horn and the babies.

 

Everyone knows that.

 

Here's something you might not know.

 

The daddy on this bus is thinking

 

This is not what I signed up for.

 

And maybe the driver on the bus

 

is thinking the exact same thing.

 

Maybe he looks over at the daddy

 

and he doesn't go Move on back.

 

Maybe instead he nods and smiles.

 

And the daddy nods and smiles.

 

And the driver hits the gas

 

and goes zoom, zoom, zoom

 

so fast that the mommies on the bus say

 

Jesus Christ almighty, slow down!

 

And the driver screeches to a halt at the corner

 

because he sees a sign for a bar called "Open at 9 a.m."

 

and he and the daddy get off the bus and go into the bar.

 

Call an Uber

 

because this bus is out of service.

 

Sing that verse, why don't you.

 

The talk

 

Well, son.

 

Here we are

 

in the car

 

driving to Costco

 

for a fifty-pack of paper towels.

 

You're ten years old now.

 

Wow.

 

I'm eleven, Dad, you say.

 

Why are we going the long way?

 

And why are you smoking?

 

Great questions.

 

But here's a question for you.

 

You know your penis, right?

 

Wait. What?

 

you ask, staring at me.

 

Son, let's say a man has a penis and that penis . . .

 

Dad. Is this a math problem?

 

Like: if a train leaves Chicago at nine a.m. . . .

 

Nope. Not a math problem.

 

It's a penis problem.

 

Well, not a problem per se.

 

You see, a woman has a vagina.

 

And the penis and vagina say hello.

 

Ha! A talking penis!

 

Glen at school does a talking penis thing with his lunch box.

 

Forget Glen for a minute.

 

When a man and a woman love each other . . .

 

Are you and Mom getting a divorce?!

 

No no. God no. Your mother likes me very much.

 

No, I'm talking here about . . . well . . .

 

Lovemaking.

 

Intercourse . . .

 

Oh. Glen says you need a boner first.

 

Well, Glen is spot-on there.

 

Come to think of it

 

maybe just talk to Glen.

 

Barney died, sweetheart

 

It's sad, I know.

 

How did he die?

 

Well, Barney was old.

 

And you know how dinosaurs are extinct?

 

Extinct means you no longer deserve to live.

 

That's just a rough definition

 

of course.

 

Anyway he was the last dinosaur.

 

And now he's gone.

 

And here's a funny story about Caillou.

 

He went on vacation.

 

Forever.

 

You know how we go on vacation

 

to your grandmother's

 

for one agonizing week?

 

I mean wonderful week?

 

Well, it's like that.

 

Only the food is probably better.

 

Oh. And I saw on the news recently that

 

Paw Patrol went on their last mission.

 

Apparently they retired.

 

And the Bubble Guppies moved to Phoenix.

 

And Dora . . . poor Dora went a little too far exploring.

 

Look, sweetheart. The Bourne Identity is on.

 

You'll like this.

 

What you call sex I call a wonderful time to make a mental list

 

Is this good? you ask.

 

It's very pleasant, I respond, distracted,

 

immediately regretting the word "pleasant."

 

Pleasant? you say, confused and hurt.

 

Sorry, I meant amazing.

 

What are you thinking about? you ask, trying to be sexy.

 

You, I lie.

 

Of course you. And . . . lots of . . . sexy things . . .

 

Like the fact that we need milk.

 

And paper towels.

 

And glancing over at the windows

 

I notice that they need to be washed.

 

And I forgot to call my sister back.

 

Oh, and my shoes at the cobbler.

 

"Cobbler" is a funny word.

 

Cobbler.

 

Except I say cobbler out loud.

 

And you say

 

Oh yeah. You're my dirty little peach cobbler, aren't you?

 

Sure, whatever.

 

I'm not.

 

But thank you for reminding me

 

that I need to go to the farmer's market.

 

Baby wipes

 

If you had told me

 

in my twenties

 

that I would do this,

 

I wouldn't believe you.

 

But this morning,

 

the baby's poop

 

shot out like a cannonball

 

and some of it landed in my hair.

 

Well, I was pretty tired

 

and I guess too lazy

 

to shower.

 

And I was late for work.

 

So what I did

 

was take a baby wipe

 

and clean it out of my hair.

 

Most of it, anyway.

 

Then I went on with my day.

 

Family vacation

 

This is relaxing

 

I think to myself

 

on the first day

 

of our vacation

 

as I hide

 

in the men's room

 

of a Roy Rogers

 

at a rest stop

 

just off bumper-to-bumper I-95

 

while the kids

 

continue fighting

 

with tennis racquets

 

in the back seat.

 

And only five more hours to go.

 

I don't want to leave this place

 

I whisper aloud.

 

Neither do I

 

says the man in the next stall.

 

Interpreting your preschool artwork

 

I made this for you, Mommy!

 

Honey. It . . . is . . . a-MAZ-ing.

 

But you're not looking. You're looking at your phone.

 

Sorry, honey. I see it now.

 

Guess what it is!

 

Oh my! Well I think it's pretty obvious . . .

 

It's a duck on a plane!

 

No it isn't!

 

Oh. Well . . . is it a farmer . . . and a little round pig who might also be a beach ball?

 

Noooo!

 

Ahhh . . . a dog holding a lottery ticket?

 

Mom!

 

This part looks like a prison yard . . . Is it a prison . . . in the moonlight?

 

Mommy!

 

Tell me.

 

It's a stick eating a grape!

 

Good job, sweetie.

 

Let's put it in the big pile

 

by the fireplace

 

where all of Mommy's

 

special papers go.

 

Weekend breakfast with the family

 

I was up early on Sunday

 

and did two loads of laundry

 

and made a shopping list

 

for the week

 

and then made eggs and pancakes

 

for everyone.

 

My children hugged me.

 

How lovely.

 

You're Mrs. Squishy Butt

 

my daughter said

 

squeezing my butt

 

laughing.

 

My son and husband laughed too.

 

You are, Mom!

 

Your butt is so squishy!

 

You have the squishiest butt in the whole house!

 

Everyone kept laughing

 

and saying I had

 

a squishy butt.

 

What fun!

 

Except I guess I was a bit tired.

 

The weekends can be long.

 

And maybe I don't go to the gym

 

as much as I should.

 

You all stopped laughing though

 

when I threw the bowl

 

of pancake batter

 

into the sink

 

and shouted

 

You can all go straight to hell!

 

I may have overreacted.

 

The heat between us

 

In the kitchen

 

after the babies are down

 

we are finally alone.

 

You in your baggy sweatpants

 

stained fleece

 

and old socks.

 

I sense your sexuality.

 

If I squint.

 

I am so turned on

 

I hear you say

 

through a mouthful

 

of cold mac and cheese

 

spooned directly from a saucepan.

 

Tired.

 

You said I am so tired.

 

My bad.

 

I lean in to kiss your neck

 

and am hit with a powerful scent

 

that forces me back.

 

New shampoo? I ask.

 

No. I think that's spit-up.

 

I feel the heat between us.

 

And that heat is the front burner

 

which I left on by mistake.

 

3:32 a.m. and I am sure the infant is taunting me

 

The Navy SEALs do a thing

 

so I have heard.

 

Hell Week.

 

Days and nights

 

with almost no sleep.

 

Pushed to their limit.

 

Except it only lasts five days.

Produktinformationen

Titel: Love Poems for People with Children
Autor:
EAN: 9780593085240
ISBN: 978-0-593-08524-0
Format: Fester Einband
Herausgeber: Random House N.Y.
Genre: Lyrik & Dramatik
Anzahl Seiten: 112
Jahr: 2019