Perfect Children

When I was young, I wrote poems about blue-eyed, blonde haired children that I expected would one day be mine, perfect children envisioned by my mind. Isn't it ironic that I used to say I hoped I wouldn't have red-haired children? You are my beautiful daughter, green-eyed, red-haired perfect. And you, my sons, blue eyes and green eyes, exactly the sons a mother would wish for. All those poems have blown away, erased by the breeze of time. But you remain. You are the children of my heart.