Rainy Season

Here in Florida, Summer brings afternoon thunderstorms that dissipate as quickly as they come. The showers are often a refreshing intermission to the overwhelming heat. Little Bit is developing her own appreciation for our weather.

Here are the words to one of her favorite poems from this book:

Brooms

On stormy days

When the wind is high,

Tall tress are brooms

Sweeping the sky.

They swish their branches

In buckets of rain

And swash and sweep it

Blue again.

-Dorothy Aldis

My Toddler, The Poet

"Oh me, oh my. Not a thing goes by."

With the wisdom of an eighty year old woman in her voice, Little Bit has been repeating this line since yesterday at dinner.

We have no idea where it came from.

We have no idea what it means.

Now, don't get me wrong. I believe my little girl to be as precocious and brilliant as can be, but could she really have made up this little rhyme?

"Oh me, oh my. Not a thing goes by."

She says it with such conviction.

It's quite funny to hear. She may as well be sitting in a rocker, sporting glasses and a hearing aid, talking about the good old days.

"Oh me, oh my. Not a thing goes by."

And I can't decide whether or not it makes no sense at all, or makes absolute perfect sense. Apparently there's a fine line between nonsense and genius.

For now, I'll stick with the latter...but I reserve the right to change my mind tomorrow when she's pouring her milk onto her PB&J.

Stumble, Trip! Stumble, Trip! Stumble Trip!

For those parents who feel like you're reciting parts of Michael Rosen's "We're Going on a Bear Hunt" every time you try to maneuver around your messy house, perhaps this lovely poem will help you feel a little better about the moldy cup of apple juice that is balancing so gracefully atop the heap of dishes in your sink. 

Song for a Fifth Child

by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton

Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
Sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I’ve grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby 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 her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For 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.