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"Bob, you would be willing to raise a bunch of Nicknamedbobs?"

I was low-maintenance. Still am.

Cheerios for breakfast, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, and a corner somewhere to read books? I could have a dozen of them around here and never notice.

But no, I had to have daughters:

My Shadow Grown

You stand with me, my shadow grown.
With patience that is not my own.
Your quiet smile of knowing glance ...
Some feckless boy won’t stand a chance.

Could I start over, young and free,
I fear what might become of me,
But you are fearless, confident,
You’ve not your father’s malcontent.

You have your own sweet reverie,
That Life rewards one cleverly,
With hidden treasures one must find,
By opening up a growing mind.

You understand that patience brings,
Appreciation in small things.
The storm dumps down on joyless days.
You find the iridescent glaze.

A parking lot, whose oily sheen,
Takes many passes to wash clean,
You find the beauty. Inside you,
There is a sunny point of view.

There is bad weather for each life,
Each of us must handle strife.
The path I’ve followed will not show,
When your turn comes, which way to go.

When storms have come and they have passed,
That is the time for you at last,
As droplets wane and brightness grows,
To lift your head and find rainbows.

NicknamedBob . . . . . March 5, 2005