I recently wrote one of my first non-rhyming posts: Four in the Bed based on the well known nursery rhyme. After having written an unspeakable number of rhyming posts, I found that it was actually quite liberating to take a poem and make it, well, kind of, not rhyme. So here I am with my second not rhyming rhyme…
This one is based (a little bit) on Rudyard Kipling’s incredible poem “If”, and marks the momentous occasion that is: your littlest one doing soft play all by his tiny self. *Sniff*
To The Boy…
If you can keep your Cosy Coupe when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you.
If you can trust your own abilities when your parents quite frankly aren’t so sure, and if you can make no allowances for this by catapulting yourself arse first down the curly wurly slide.
If you can drop and remove your shoes in less that 12 seconds, launching them behind you in wild abandon.
If you can calculate that the squishy blocks make excellent portable step ladders for ascending the tallest of frames meant for older children.
If you can avoid the kid that’s vibrating on Fruit Shoots and Haribo.
If you can identify your parents and come to them, instead of having a hissy fit and screeching hysterically at your apparent abandonment. (Even though they are sat watching you from not 2 metres away).
If you can develop a scream that is so unique that your mother will recognise it instantly, and come bounding over cargo nets like a contestant on “It’s a Knockout!”
If you can manage to grasp the concept that slides are meant for DOWN not UP!
If you can identify those older children that have not yet grasped this concept and take them out in a sweeping landslide as you plummet down with total disregard for oncoming traffic.
If you can leave the ball pool wearing no other child’s bodily fluids, and having sourced but NOT eaten an 8 month old Quaver.
If you can sustain yourself entirely on Pom Bears which have been collected by swooping dangerously close to the highchair and grabbing like a sea gull.
If you can manage the above manoeuvre without being made captive and placed in said highchair whilst being
fed shown cucumber sticks.
If you can exit the soft play feet first rather than head.
If you can negotiate the human car wash whilst Mummy suffocates in lattes and writes a blog post.
If you can fill the final “It’s time to get your shoes on” minute
With half an hour’s worth of chasing about in circles and trying to hide under a hula hoop.
Yours is the soft play and everything that’s in it.
And – which is more – you’ll be a Little Man, my son!
Not Rhyming with Latte.
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