Song For the Fifth Child

As I was rocking Amirah to sleep tonight, I was thinking about how many rocks the chair I was sitting in, had rocked. Millions I am sure. Yes, I rocked every one of my children until my pregnant lap could no longer hold them, and sometimes longer. I was thinking that I had probably spent hundreds of hours in that chair. Then in my mind I started doing some simple calculations. When it was all said and done, I figured out that in the last 10 years I have spent approximately 1,825 hours in that rocking chair...and still counting. Seriously? 1, 825 hours! That is not even counting those nights of ear infections and stomach flu that I never left the chair, and the first 3 month when they were taking like 8 naps a day! Do I regret it? Not one single minute of the 109,000 minutes! This is one case where I am so glad that I did NOT listening to the books. The books give instruction on how to let your child "self-soothe". It works for some. Not for me. I will admit that there were times that I sat in the chair rocking, thinking about the countless things that needed to be done: laundry, cleaning, meal preparation, etc. It was those times that I would remind myself of the counted cross stitch that Bryan's mom always talked about. Ardith used to have a counted cross stitch hanging in her home when her kids were little. She has reminded me of it on several occasions. Usually when I am complaining about how untidy my house is, or how little I got done done in a week. It is evident that she reminded herself of it many times as well, as she recites the poem as a Kindergartner recites their ABC's. It goes like this:

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

I discovered this week that there is more to the poem and that the poem is entitled, A Song For the Fifth Child. How appropriate is that? Here is the poem in its entirety.

Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth, Empty the dustpan, poison the moth, Hang out the washing and butter the bread, Sew on a button and make up a bed. Where is the mother whose house is so shocking? She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I’ve grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).
The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren’t her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

So, is my house often a mess? Almost always. Do I have supper on the table when Bryan comes home from work? Hardly ever. Is my laundry overflowing the baskets? All the time. Will I regret fixing puzzles, reading books, and rocking my children to sleep. NEVER!

Speaking of laundry...Seriously, I am NEVER caught up. It is a constant battle here. I snapped a couple of pictures, just so I don't ever forget what my laundry room looks like most days!