My Hand prints
Tiny hand prints grow so fast
Their awkward groping soon will clasp
A ball, a book a sweetheart’s hand
A diploma, briefcase, a wedding band
Tiny hand prints grow so strong
It doesn’t take them very long
To snap a shirt, to paint, to draw
To work hard , to drive a car
Tiny hand prints grow to be
A person that is quite unique
A wonderful mix of so many things
With his own feelings, thought and dreams
Tiny hand prints grow to rely
On his parents to bring him up just right
His parents pray that when he’s grown
He’ll say their job has been well done
Tiny hand prints are ours to love
The sweetest gift from God above
A miracle that never is surpassed
How sad they grow up way to fast – anonymous
I can’t tell you how often over the past 10 years I have been so annoyed by messy hand prints in the middle of my clean storm door or on my kitchen windows. My mother in law always says “Lori you are going to miss those messy hand prints when they are gone”. I always think to myself I will miss my kids like crazy but not the spots on my clean windows. The other day I put my hand up to my sons hand and they are almost the same size as mine. It does happen so quickly.
So today pause for a bit when you get home and get into that cleaning mode and are so annoyed by the messes your kids leave behind. Take a look around and realize that one day your house will be spotless and you will miss that mess. Thank God we have the children to make those messes, just think of all the women who wish they were able to raise children that never get to clean that mess.
“Song for a 5th Child” by Ruth 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.”