Peckish

Yours reminded me of a poem printed in the newspaper when my oldest was about a year old. He was autistic, never took naps and had a high-demand, high-maintenance personality; he could not sit quietly and play by himself for 5 minutes. I taped the poem to my fridge and read it every day to remind myself to slow down, it would not last forever. He's now 18 and definitely less demanding!

My hands were busy through the day,
I didn't have much time to play
the little games you asked me to.
I didn't have much time for you.

I'd wash your clothes, I'd sew and cook,
but when you'd bring your picture book
and ask me, please, to share your fun,
I'd say, "A little later, Son."

I'd tuck you in all safe at night,
And hear your prayers, turn out the light,
Then tiptoe softly to the door.
I wish I'd stayed a minute more.

For life is short, and years rush past,
A little boy grows up so fast.
No longer is he at your side,
His precious secrets to confide.

The picture books are put away,
there are no children's games to play.
No good-night kiss, no prayers to hear,
That all belongs to yesteryear.

My hands once busy, now lie still
The days are long and hard to fill.
I wish I might go back and do
The little things you asked me to.

What I have always taken from that is to leave the dust bunnies and the laundry piles and snuggle your kids. People matter more than cleaning, and people means YOU, too.