There’s something I need to tell you,
but it’s sort of hard to explain.
I love you to the moon and back,
but sometimes you’re such a pain.
I love it when you hold my hand
and nuzzle into my neck.
But then you hurl your Lego
and turn the house into a wreck.
I tie your shoes all nicely
and I sing your favourite song,
but then I dare to comb your hair
and you have a right ding dong.
I peel your banana for you and
it’s the worst crime I could commit.
And god forbid I hold your spoon
or you rage and lose your shit.
You love your splashy, bubble bath
and the rubber ducks you quack,
but tip you back to wash that mop
and you have a shriek attack.
You want to walk and do your thing,
but also demand to be carried.
This’d be fine if the times you asked
your shoes were clean and unmuddied.
I love our mummy-daughter days
and your joyful, squealy laughter.
But later when it’s time for bed
I crave that silence after.
You’re fierce and tough and wilful
and you really know your mind.
That makes me extra proud,
(although you change it all the time.)
You see, my love, it’s tiring stuff,
handling our toddler offspring.
You’re my favourite and a nightmare
and I wouldn’t change a thing.