MY HANDS WERE BUSY
My hands were busy through the day.
I didn’t have much time to play.
The little games you asked to do,
I didn’t have much time for you.
I’d wash your clothes. I’d sew and cook.
You’d ask and I’d read from your book.
I’d tuck you in all safe at night,
And hear your prayers; turn out the light.
Then tiptoe softly by your door,
I wish I’d stayed a minute more.
For life was short, the years rushed past,
A little boy grows up so fast.
No longer is he at my side,
His precious secrets to confide.
The picture books are put away.
There are no longer games to play.
No Teddy Bears or misplaced toys
No sleepovers with lots of boys.
No goodnight kiss, no prayers to hear.
That all belongs to yesteryear.
My hands, once busy, now are still.
The days are long and hard to fill.
I wish I could go back and do
The little things you asked me to do.
Boy this one rings true. The working mother dilemma. Yesterday I was in a flurry of cooking after school and shoo-ed everyone out of the kitchen. I did pause while there were loud screams and giggles and arguments over whose turn it was and tears over wounds and requests - puhleeasse - to play the DS, to remind myself that one day I will not hear boisterous children racing up the hall and nor will I have infinitesimal disputes to arbitrate, and I will miss it all madly.