Large Fierce Mammal

By all reports, Mrs. LFM and I were both colicky babies. Having both been born at a very young age, neither of us has any direct recollection, so we’re forced to take parental word on that.

Rumour has it that 40% of babies have colic, and whether or not that is accurate, SFM Lukas represents the 50% of the LFM offspring who has turned out to be so afflicted. Poor wee shite. Poor parents too because a child who takes on the behaviour of a Bat, but instead of flying through the night skies swallowing Mosquitoes ends up screaming his lungs out for hours that inevitably begin at exactly the time everything in the house is most desirous of sleep, is a trial on the patience of even the most saintly.

I am happy to report that young Lukas is moving beyond this stage in his life, and you will not be surprised to learn that working through it required a healthy dose of humour, mostly in the form of poetry, and some of which will never see the light of day. We Love our children Goode Reader, and will never let them come to harm, but sleep deprivation is its own reward if you get my drift.

The poem that follows describes a dream I had one night after sitting for three hours listening to Lukas scream while Mrs. LFM soaked up some desperately needed sleep. No, I would not shoot my kid out of a potato cannon although I can’t say I feel the same about some others I’ve met, and I don’t plan to launch either SFM into the void at 17 or any other age. That’s to be determined at a later date.

Ode to the Colicky Bairn

By LFM

A gun to fire potatoes lad,
Built with exquisite care,
Is what I made to shoot a spud
With speed from here to there.

Soon after you arrived my Son,
One night amid your screams,
The darkest inspiration came
To visit in my dreams.

I’d never see you harmed my Son,
Yet dreamed as though t’were real,
The building of another gun;
Its every tube and seal.

And in that dream I measured you
To fit the barrel snug,
Enwrapped within your flannel wad,
As snug as any bug.

But as it was, you grew so fast
That every time I tried,
I found you’d grown a tad too big,
So fitting was denied.

I kept installing barrels that
Would fit your larger size,
But still you never seemed to fit
Whatever I’d devise.

And this went on and on my Son
Until I came to lean
Toward delaying launching you
Before you’re seventeen.