You want for the crawls and climbs,
sublimes and lemons.
Let the kid run, helplessly,
so he or she strives
for the unreachable star.
“Stop growing!” a mother hollers.
A father has their bags packed.
Shikata Ga Nai, the wise say.
Mother must cry when separated
by the wibble-wabble of time.
Dad must harumph over remnants,
tricycles and toys in garage and attics,
shed tears behind dry...
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