I took today's poem from the activities my son and I engaged in this morning.
We blast off
into a crayon-colored sky. Arms outstretched,
we ride rockets to the moon. Deep
breath and we are dinosaurs
stomping. I am a plastic
dog to your wrench-carrying
boy. You are fixing
everything. Later, I am a small
polar bear to your large, hopping
bunny. You call me teeny and are tickled
that one day you'll be taller. We build
a LEGO house on the carpet-grass. Fanciful
"We're not finished yet," you say,
pulling bright blocks from
a cardboard box. We must use every piece,
building stacks upon stacks. My job
is to bring your disparate towers
together, join them
with longer pieces for stability. I help you
make sense of the puzzle pieces, scattered
all over the floor. You fiddle
with the cross-arm for a draw-bridge.
We build wooden looping tracks for your
magnetic trains. This
is my job: to help you make
sense of things. To build
wild paths to wonder.
Like this poem? Donate any amount and receive a special limited-edition ebook, available as a PDF in May, titled "Now with Kung-Fu Action Grip." It will include poetry, essays and humor pieces about pregnancy, parenting and my creative, determined toddler, nicknamed Kung Fu Panda. Proceeds will go towards defraying the travel expenses for our upcoming trip to Illinois, where KFP will be a ringbearer in the wedding of a couple we regard as family. Help us make this the best trip of KFP's young life!
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