“When you teach your son, you teach your son’s son.”
~The Talmud
My grandfather happened to pass, the day I told my family I’d started writing. Every Saturday for the last few months of his life, I sat next to him in bed and read him my rhymes. At his funeral, I read a rhyme I wrote for him.
The following Wednesday, my mom came to dinner with a page of prose to match the piece she’d heard. Her tip of the bonnet to me.
When I told her I was planning a post on the power of praise, she asked if she could publish the poem she’d penned.
“Um… sure,” I said, preceding a twitter of nervous laughter.
One day, I’m certain, my mom will join us in Blogopolis. This will be good for her, and save me from random phone calls explaining the events of Xena, Warrior Princess, Angel, and Nip Tuck. Actually, now that I think about it, twitter would be right up my mom’s alley.
Without further ado, here’s Grammy:
When Sean was just a little guy,
he was the apple of my eye.
My first, my baby, my pride, my joy.
But oh my God, was he all boy!
He certainly put me through my paces,
with mischievous acts and silly faces.
Then along came a sister, we saw as a thrill;
he was a rascally Jack to her sweet little Jill.
A brand new playmate, the perfect target,
for pranks that would daily challenge Margaret.
When teachers called me to complain
about behavior quite insane,
I took it all with a granule of salt,
never wanting to launch parental assault.
Life is not black and life is not white.
It’s many shades of grey in my sight.
Kids will be bad, and kids will be good,
but kids should also be understood.
Sean was fun, a total charmer,
but true in heart, a never harmer.
I knew that in spite of his wit and his spunk,
immature actions and juvenile junk,
I saw the spirit of someone great
who could be a father and perfect mate.
Take some maturity, add on the years,
all life’s experience and some of its tears.
Sprinkle some patience, then you will see,
the outstanding man he was destined to be.
As I have grown in age and in girth,
I have never regretted once giving birth
to a rascally, bright, and challenging child.
Sometimes tender, occasionally wild.
He’s grown to be more than I could expect;
honest, straightforward, mature, and direct.
Still ten years old when we are alone,
but wise beyond years when needed at home.
His grandma and grandpa look down in pride
at the man he’s become, past history aside.
He certainly gave them a run for their money,
but now walks the path of his Papí and Honey.
Writer Dad
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In an upcoming post Writer Dad’s gonna rap about the grueling difficulties of a good edit.. and how they’re exponentially worse when doing them with your mother.
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