On the state of our home . . .

If any of you should venture to our house anytime soon and wonder about the dull state of our hardwoods or the dust bunnies in the corners or the unfinished moulding or the raw wood doors, might I refer you to the poem below.

We are otherwise entertained right now. Emmeline grows bigger all the time. We'd rather not miss it (however the picture below shows how out of hand the craft loft has become).

Craft loft, a.k.a. storage, a.k.a. my next project

Anyway, on to that poem.

BABIES DON’T KEEP

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…...

~Author Unknown ~