My small, middle boy is three today, on this brightly sunny, Poetry Friday. We had waffles for breakfast (per his request) and I sprayed a tower of whipped cream on top of his and stuck a candle in it. He dimpled and blew it out and dug in. I think it will be a good year.
Here's hoping this year he learns how to: keep his pants dry all the time, sleep through the night, whine less and talk more, and buckle his own seatbelt. Three is the year. I'm ready and I know he is too.
Here's hoping this year he learns how to: keep his pants dry all the time, sleep through the night, whine less and talk more, and buckle his own seatbelt. Three is the year. I'm ready and I know he is too.
Happy Birthday, Dee! I love you so. Today the poem is all yours.
Young Biography
He is forklifts, nose wrinkles and faithful glasses of milk.
He is the towering T-rex bones at The Museum of Natural History
He is bottomless sardine tins, Frog and Toad and quiet spaces.
He is a toddler in a surgical gown, a homebirth into quiet waters.
He is whipped cream slurped off the sundae and a raspy dinosaur voice.
He is the way that butter, once-melted-into-your-oatmeal, ceases to exist and is mourned.
He is a painting of Jesus on The Road to Emmaus that hangs at the back of the sanctuary.
He is a tiny sparkle in the corner of an unremarkable beige pebble at the beach.
He is infinite little pebbles, heavy in the pockets of tiny pairs of sagging jeans.
He is sirloin steak and oozing pricey cheese and a funny, little gear that turns, just so.
He is my second son, and this morning he was three for the first time.
You can find all kinds of other poetic delights today at Dori Reads, the home of our Poetry Friday round-up hostess.
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