A Second Born

Childhood, Parenting, Random poetry, Relationships Add comments


From randomlists.com

The words that came up today fed into what I was pondering while watching my boys play football in their playground after school was out.

It was really cold, but I always over-wrap our boys since we are so used to the walk home in all conditions! 

We have not done the footie thing after school since about October, because it was just getting too dark by the time we got home, so we focussed on getting in and getting cosy. Our six year old has not been happy about this, casting longing glances back at the kids who have transport,  really wanting to stay an extra 15 minutes (which would always end up being double that if I ever said yes…).

But Daddy being off work this week gives us much more scope for play!  So our boys got a good work out keeping up with all the different ages of kids hanging around after school 😉


Son   Graceful   Wealth   Productive   Stew   Brother   Parched   Unpack   Spicy


I watch my son, last year so little,

Now graceful in his attempts

To tackle bigger boys at football.


All that wealth of knowledge

Gleaned from being second-born

Proving productive.  No stew

About being outplayed, just

Determined to get on,

And help his brother out should

He need someone who’s clear.


I only get an update

When a small parched mouth is calling,

(Then a drilling, as I unpack,

About which tactic I liked best).


It’s so beautiful, yet sobering,

To see him play and banter;

Throw down slightly spicy humour

Retell some cartoon gags.


No, I can’t escape the evidence

Of years and time and patience,

But then I couldn’t be prouder,

So I’ll just hug him extra tight.


Tracks of a hasty pencil.

Do you sometimes look at your child/ren and catch your breath at how big they suddenly seem?

I often look at pictures of my siblings on Facebook (who are now parents themselves) and give myself a shake as I still think of them as primary school kids!!  (Sorry guys, but I do). Their children are growing at an alarming rate too, it’s so scary.

I read the above poem to our youngest as he sat on my knee, his curls still damp from the bath, his little face tired and emotional from his busy day. He seemed pleased that I had written about him again, and that I had taken in how well he’d been handling himself.

Our eldest came in at that moment (also newly washed and PJd) and agreed that his brother had done well, so it was a nice moment.

What son and brother interaction would you have written about?


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