I Wonder How A Man Would Feel, A Poem

This poem, written by YOURS TRULY (me), is for all the women out there who hate to cook every night…who hate to figure out “what’s for dinner”…who didn’t expect this to be such a large part of their life with their family. If I ever calculated how much time I spend thinking about dinner, planning dinner, shopping for dinner, and making dinner, I’m sure I would be appalled. It takes an inordinate amount of our time, and I can get quite angry about it. I work for a living. I pick up kids. I attend my kids’ events. I bring work home with me. The last thing I want to do is make dinner. I’m sorry, but it’s true.

Therefore, this poem is dedicated to all moms out there whose (other) job it is to make dinner. If you despise it like I do, I have two words for you: I’m sorry.

Men, please don’t take offense to this poem. I know there are some incredible men out there who cook, organize, and prepare meals. To those of you who actually do spend time creating menus and making meals, please forgive this poem.

Also, please enjoy. It’s meant to poke a little fun.

 

I Wonder How A Man Would Feel, A Poem

I wonder how a man would feel

If he had to make us every meal

If he had known without a doubt

That we wanted a salad topped with sprouts

 

I wonder how a man would feel

If he had to cut and chop and peel

Onions, celery, chicken and pork

And then serve it to us with knife and fork

 

I wonder how a man would feel

If he baked us corn bread with cornmeal

And served us chili on a plate

Only to learn it’s something we hate

 

I further wonder if a man would care

To plan a week’s meals without fail

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, you see

Must make it all from a full pantry

 

Stock up on items he would need

Enough for many mouths to feed

Make the dinner, good and healthy

Elaborate meals aren’t just for the wealthy

 

A vegetable, a starch, some vitamins too

It’s important we get enough to renew

Make sure he gets the recipe right

He shouldn’t disappoint, just delight

 

I wonder how a man would feel

If he had to touch a banana peel

That was aged and spotted and kind of oozy—

The only one left to go into the smoothie

 

I wonder how a man would feel

If the menu choice was just plain eel

Because that’s what’s prepared—he’s stuck with it

I’m pretty sure he’d have a fit

 

I wonder how a man would feel

If his chicken soup began to congeal

And became a leftover for far too long

The hours spent making it now long gone

 

I further wonder if a man would change

Night after night making food on the range

Would it make him appreciate the hours it took?

Apparently not, and I hate to cook.