A Birthday Poem to Mothers

It’s my birthday and I’m thinking of you.
You had four awesome kids, but now you’re through.
You gave me life twenty-six years ago.
I’ll son be a Dad; my wife is prego.
To friends we give gifts on the day they’re born.
But forget mother, inaction forlorn.
It should be you who receives them each year.
Our bond is special, my mother, most dear.
For your hard work while I grew in the womb.
You let yourself stretch, for me you made room.
At birth, you pushed my large head through your hips.
Then hugged and kissed me, a kiss with your lips.
Later, you taught me to walk with my legs.
I fell once, or twice, having many goose-eggs.
Then with my body, the cookies to reach,
You taught me good words, my first uttered speech.
Right when my tongue could do more than just taste.
You taught of Christ, so my life wouldn’t waste,
To make wise choices and make them posthaste.
Then I grew older, and started to yell.
My all-knowing nature, at that time, hell.
But I grew up and I taught for our Lord.
On my mission I was less than, say, board.
I returned early, my mind had gone blank.
I could have withered away; shriveled, shrank.
But you and Dad nursed me back to my life.
I soon recovered and married my wife.
Yes, I’ll soon be a parent, just like you.
I’m glad that you taught me what I should do.
“Keep learning and working, and  walk in Christ’s light.
And you’ll soon meet God, having fought a good fight.”

 

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