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.
by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton
The next several weeks I longed to turn the clock down just a little. bit. slower. It seemed I couldn’t catch up with anything now that my baby had grown so suddenly from my womb, out of my arms. I really mourned that loss of divine mother/daughter bonding time that only nursing can offer.
But I now realize that while our relationship is changing and growing, and some things Stella doesn’t need me for, like her sole nutrition, she still relies on me for all sorts of other things. I still provide her all her meals, even if that means I’m cooking and preparing them. I still bond with her, even if rather than rocking her skin to skin all through the day, I’m laughing and dancing with her and chasing her around the house. And while I rocked her for her nap today, I sang to her the song I’ve been singing to her since she was in my womb. I felt the weight of her body in my arms, I watched as her eyes became so heavy they finally gave way. And I realized that no matter how old she is, or how busy she gets, I will always be her mama.
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