Friday, September 19, 2008
I wrote the following poem in 1997 and found the exercise to be wonderful (and very affordable) therapy during a difficult time with teenage children who were "acting out" (is THAT what they really called it?) -- and yes, that was a run-on sentence. They did it all and have pretty much made amends for their bad behavior (bad, bad, bad little children ....) When I’m an old lady (no home of my own), I’ll live with my children who are finally grown. I’ll move in with my kids, bring them all the same joys That they brought to me – my girls and my boys. I’ll run and I’ll play and just piddle away The time that I should be doing chores every day. I’ll run off to the movies and not wash a dish; I’ll beg for allowance whenever I wish. I’ll plug up the toilet, flushing onto the floor; As soon as they mop it, I’ll flood it some more. I will draw on the walls and scuff up the floor; I’ll run in and out without closing the door. I’ll pester my children when they’re on the phone. As long as they’re busy, I won’t leave them alone. I’ll spill orange Kool-Aid as I eat every meal; I’ll eat my banana and just drop the peel. I’ll hide beer in the fridge; “Play Girl” under my bed. Whenever they scold me, I’ll just hang my head. I’ll look like I don’t understand what they say, Then I’ll do what I want just to get my own way. I’ll hide men in the closet (maybe drugs in a drawer), And never pick up my clothes from the floor. I’ll throw the clean laundry right back down the chute; And pound on the furniture with my brand new flute. I’ll promise to clean, straighten, pick up my mess Before company comes (then forget and confess) That I really intended to get the job done, But my friends called me up and I needed to run. I’ll take all their flashlights, their batteries, and then When they buy new ones, I’ll take them again. I’ll put pets on the table, spill jam on the floor; I’ll break their good dishes as though I were four. I’ll steal pocket money from their wallets for spite; And sneak my friends in through a window at night. I’ll throw their wallets in fast-food trash cans; I’ll scratch, dent and damage their cars and their vans. I’ll answer the phone and say they’re not here; I’ll wash their best clothes in Drano, not Cheer. I’ll borrow an outfit and not give it back; I’ll complain that the house they live in’s "a shack." I’ll subscribe to the offers that I see on TV; When asked for a parent, I’ll answer, “That’s me!” I may pick my nose and wipe it on walls; I’ll probably skateboard through kitchen and halls. In the fridge I will leave empty cartons of drink; I’ll eat all their ice cream without even one blink. In the cupboards I’ll leave empty boxes of food; Then I’ll burp and I’ll fart if I’m in the mood. If I eat the last cookie and leave just the crumbs; When asked “why” I’ll shrug and look like I’m dumb. I’ll fling cooked spaghetti at the ceiling above; And record over video tapes that they love. With scissors I’ll cut all the sleeves from their shirts; And with permanent marker, I’ll draw on their skirts. If they dare to correct me, I’ll lie down and cry; I’ll kick and I’ll scream, not a tear in my eye. What fun I shall have, what a blast it will be .... To live with my children as they lived with me! -- dedicated to the Booker children who have all grown to be responsible and respectful adults (they know they are loved and adored by their mother and father) and we wouldn't trade them for anyone else's children!