ELEVEN

ELEVEN

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Jason's at a funny age.

No little boy, but far from grown;

needing hugs, but daring not to admit to it.

Eleven is a rough age;

but then, all ages have their quirky little monsters.

Almost as tall as me,

he's still my baby,

and will be when he's fifty.

Will I know him then, and like who he's become?

Better yet, will he?



But now, at his awkward age,

he shows bravado, maturity one moment,

making me laugh, I'm proud;

the next minute flighty, fighty,

I'm so furious I could

drill for oil with my foot.

He'll outgrow this stage, and be no worse for wear.

His grandma still has battle scars

from my eleventh year

in numbers of gray hairs.



I'd never, ever wish eleven on anyone.



Is there ever an easy age when you're raising children? Maybe not. But thankfully, most of us have more good days than rough.

This comes from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.