Frogs and Snails

He stood there in front of me. My seven-year-old son in a pair of worn-out, once-upon-a-time white Crocs, three-quarter pants, an oldish yet very comfy-looking t-shirt, a huge smile on his face revealing an over-sized front tooth next to a gap where it's partner should've been, and a huge bandage above his left eye, shielding his three stitches from the dirt, dust and grime of the world. In his hands, was my iPod; in his ears, were the head-phones.

He was giving me that huge, disarming smile of his because he'd just noticed me standing and watching him jump about while loudly and discordantly singing Jon Bon Jovi's "Shot Through the Heart."

He was the very picture of a boy.

Frogs and snails, indeed.

It's,

frogs and snails

and bruises and stitches.

It's

puppy dog tails

and insects and itches.

It's

dirty hands

and skinned knees.

It's

messed-up paintings

and the summer breeze.

It's

those pretend-to-be-brave voices

in the middle of the night.

It's

those cuddles and snuggles

as you're calming away a fright.

It's

those lullabys they ask for,

those cookies they beg for;

those stories they wait for,

those goodies they crave for.

It's

those gap-toothed smiles

and those sparkly, bright eyes --
equivalent to
the cherry on top of the cake.

It's

when those faces crumble
and those tears flow like rivers,
that you can physically
feel your poor heart break.

It's

lots of lovin' and huggin'

and sticky kisses galore.

It's

these things that make their mamma's hearts

greedy for more.