My Sleeping Son.

When my son was very small
He hardly needed sleep at all
We’d climb the wooden stairs each night
I’d tuck him in and dim the light
Then read him stories – three or four
Until at last he’d start to snore
I’d sit and stroke his hair a while
Peace at last, a weary smile
I’d turn and creep towards the door
Praying for two hours or more…

He’s now a hulking 6ft teen
And down the years in between
His need for sleep’s grown exponentially
Until today it seems potentially
Twenty-three hours from twenty-four
He’d happily lay in bed and snore
Where once he leapt to greet dawn’s light
I’d now take bets that dynamite
Would fail to rouse the lazy git
From the sweaty depths of his festering pit.


2 thoughts on “My Sleeping Son.”

    1. In truth I could have it much worse. At least he bothers setting his alarm etc, where I know many teenagers even older than him who still think it’s mum/dad’s responsibility to get them up for school/college/university/work!

      Always a pleasure, and thanks for comment 🙂

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