The sterilizer's up for grabs.
Nicked porta-crib, good-bye.
My third and youngest son is growing older.
I'm done with dawn awakenings,
With pablum in my eye,
With small moist bundles burping on my shoulder.
I gave away my drawstring slacks
And smocks with floppy bows.
My silhouette will never more be pear-ish.
And though I'm left with stretch marks
And a few veins varicose,
I'm aming for an image less ma-mère-ish.
No playpens in the living room
Will mangle my décor.
My stairs will not be blocked with safety fences.
No rattles, bottles, bibs, stuffed bears
Will disarray my floor,
No eau de diaper pail will assail my senses.
And no more babies will disrupt
The tenor of my day.
Nor croup and teething interrupt my sleeping.
I swear to you I wouldn't have it
Any other way.
It's positively stupid to be weeping.
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