April, May
and June,
Son is on
the moon.
Its that
time of the year again,
When
getting up in the morning is not a pain.
Son is up
with the lark,
Though my
mornings (which begin at 5 a.m.) are a bit stark.
I wake up
to the sound of a basketball,
Hitting
the wall.
Its
holidaze he says,
To my
sleepy, laconic gaze.
One hour
later,
It gets no
better.
The house
looks like a war zone,
Legos
strewn and toys dismembered and torn.
The sound
is magnified,
The TV
volume amplified,
I see his
pals running hither and thither,
While I
dither.
The last I
saw a game of pillow fight was on,
I escaped
to pen my feelings in full form.
Its bed
time finally,
Though he
just informed me with glee.
Its Sunday
tomorrow,
Your watch
with the alarm I shall borrow.
Ill get up
at 5,
And take a
long jog to revive.
Sigh! Sunday and 5?
Its like
these kids connive.
To make
the moms feel blazed,
Every HoliDaze.
