J...Jumping into Puddles

A few weeks ago I was walking along the sidewalk, a woman and her young son ahead of me. He saw the puddle at the edge of the pavement, partially covered with a thin sheet of ice. It was too much to resist. He stamped his foot in the puddle, breaking the ice, covering his boots in mud.

I could see his mother shake her head as she pulled him away and continued on. I also saw him look back, for there was more fun to be had, little boys being what they are, and puddles being so interesting.

It made me think of my own son, and I remembered when he was little and I wrote a poem for him.

Little Boys

They say that little boys are sweet

that they are oh so fine,

But I can tell they’ve never met

that little boy of mine.

When rain pours down and leaves behind

little puddles in the street,

No pool or puddle has been missed

by my boy’s little feet.

And when I send him out to play

in clothes all nice and clean,

Home he comes all dirt and grime

and knees all coloured green.

When supper’s done he clears the plates

for that’s a simple chore,

And when he wipes the table clean

the crumbs land on the floor.

When at night he has his bath

I really have to scrub,

To get off all the dirt he leaves

in a ring around the tub.

In bed at night when he’s asleep

I look upon his face,

And realize that no one else

could ever take his place.

They say that little boys are sweet

that they are oh so fine,

And I can tell they’ve surely met

that little boy of mine.