Monday, March 2, 2009

Hanging On

Something profound happened over the weekend. Drew lost the last bit of Newborn, and became a full-fledged Baby.

It is amazing how quickly that transformation happens. I was looking for it this time, watching for the last glimpses of Newborn-ness to fade from his face and into my memory. My last Newborn is gone. Gone are the days of wide-eyed wonderment surrounded by a little-old-man face. No more skinny little chicken legs, well, until the awkward teenage years, of course. This is my last baby, God willing, and I am going to enjoy him. I will enjoy every stage as it goes by, as I know our days of napping together, him snuggled on my chest are quickly fading. I won't always be his favorite person in the world, soon, he will want to be somewhere other than in my arms.

There is a poem by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton that I recently ran across on MckMama's blog. It was written in 1958 and first published in the Ladies Home Journal. I just love it!

Song for a Fifth Child.

Mother, O Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,
Lullabye, rockabye, lullabye loo.
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo.

The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew
And out in the yard there's a hullabaloo
But I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo
Look! Aren't his eyes the most wonderful hue?
Lullabye, rockaby lullabye loo.

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow
But children grow up as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.

I want this written on my wall. My house is often "shocking," but I am going to enjoy my kids. Because four year olds and two year olds don't keep, either.


The Campbell Family said...

I wish they did :( Before you know it they'll be 11 and 8 and you'll still think of your 8 year old as 6 :(

Anonymous said...

This poem about makes me cry, Tiff! How true it is!