5417 Head

My son, a whirlwind, a blur of motion, A heart of gold, but lacks all notion Of listening ears, or a mind that obeys, A constant test, in countless ways. He'd scale the moon, if he had the flight, A spirit wild, a mischievous light. But "No!" is a word, he barely comprehends, A stubborn streak, that never ends. NEC's shadow, a constant fear, Made me a softie, throughout the year. No spankings, no harsh, or angry word, Just gentle guidance, softly heard. But patience wears thin, as the years unfold, And "Little 5417 head," a story untold, Escapes my lips, in moments of strife, Reflecting the strain, on this weary life. He'll grow, I know, and learn to see, The value of listening, and empathy. But for now, I cherish the chaos he brings, This whirlwind of energy, that life truly sings.