Perspective

Come in. But don’t expect to find all the dishes done; all floors ashine;
Observe the crumpled rug, the toys galore,
The smudgy fingerprinted door,
The little ones we shelter here
Don’t thrive on spotless atmosphere
They’re more inclined to disarray
And the carefree, even messy, play.
Their needs are great, their patience small.
All day I’m at their beck and call
It’s “Mommie come! Mommie see!”
Wiggly worms and red-scraped knee,
Painted pictures, blocks piled high,
My floors unshined, the days go by.
Some future day they flee this nest
And I, at last, will have a rest.
And which really matters more?
A happy child or a polished floor?