An Ode to My Tantruming Threenager*
Please get off the floor, dear child, it’s neither clean nor warm
And if you thrash about like that, your brand-new clothes will get torn.
It will do you no good, my love, to cry and scream and fight
Mummy isn’t going to buy you what you want, though you can yell with all your might.
It doesn’t help your case, dear heart, that your meltdown is over frozen peas
Despite the plaintive wailing, your protest won’t weaken me in the knees.
Holding your breath does garner you attention, this much is true,
But if you carry on much longer, sweet, your lips will turn quite blue.
Your caterwauling might get some stares from passers-by,
But us mums know the drill, so we just shrug, smile and sigh.
Enough is enough my darling, it’s time to end this show,
So you choose — get up or be picked up — it’s time for us to go!
*my inner book geek requires me to acknowledge this is not really an ode. Unless, that is, Wikipedia has created an entry for The Mummy Ode: no standard meter, usually humorous, invariably composed on mobile phone between sips of wine.
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/55282649@N05/15547142333″>Grrr!</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a>