Memories

“When I became pregnant,” my mother said,
“I swallowed a pizza so you could be fed,
and because you were restless I swallowed a bed.”

“When you were a baby,” my mother wailed,
“you drank gallons of milk every time you inhaled…
Each time you spit up a ship could have sailed!”

“When you learned to crawl,” my mother complained,
“I must have been crazy to leave you unchained!
You got onto the roof every time that it rained.”

“When you started walking,” my mother sighed,
“whatever would break was where you’d collide.
I should have warned your grandmother to hide!”

 “When you got your first tooth,” my mother swore,
“to travel downstairs you chewed through the floor.
Your hand has five fingers. Your dentist’s has four!”

“When you first talked,” my mom cried in dismay,
“the words that came out of you turned my hair gray,
and every neighbor we had moved away!”

“When you’d throw a tantrum,” my mother roared,
“it would shake and rattle my spinal cord.
You derailed a train once while we were on board.”

“When we went to the zoo,” my mom reminisced,
“even the lions trembled and hissed.
The zoo put you on its ‘Prohibited’ list.”

“When I was a girl,” my mother confessed,
“for fun I would swallow a hornet’s nest.
Your grandmother says I once ate a house guest.”

“Before I had you,” my mom said and smiled,
“your grandmother hoped I’d have me for a child…
You’re sort of like me, but not nearly as wild!”