twenty-ten?

We sat after a drizzly day had finished up. We discussed some missing work, and a suitable punishment. You, head to your knees a little mad: mad at me, mad at your teacher, mad at all those worldly forces that make it hard to be ten. I bring back that memory of when you were born. How they laid you in my arms and I calmed you. That was our moment, our start. At times you've done the same for me as concern enters those azure eyes, you find ways to assure me that life is o.k. Once you feel asleep on me at four years old, worn out from the first long day of spring play. As I looked at your sandy head and dirty toes, I inhaled all you had to give me: stillness, steadiness, sweetness. I knew why I was chosen to be your mom. I need you. So you must understand that is hard, almost an out of body experience, for me to have to scold you, to ruin your days full of boyhood fun. Yet, I must. I must help mold, shape, rear you, much as you do for me, oldest child. Let' s just say I have to insure that all of that goodness stays surfaced. I know I make mistakes, even trying to make sure you don't feel like our test child. So can you do me a small favor? As you figure out how your choices affect you, realize that I always see that four year old boy when I correct you.