Oh, 15-month-old, more than baby, not quite child,
How busy you are, how strong, how wild,
In seconds flat you can empty the trash,
Throw mascara in the toilet, rid my wallet of cash.
I found you on top of the piano the other day,
Little toes on the keys, dancing away,
Minutes later you were under the couch,
Head stuck beneath, crying out “ouch.”
I remembered then having once asked my mother,
The toughest age to parent, beyond any other,
And she said with conviction — and was that a shudder? —
“15 months.” And “Lord help you,” she muttered.
Alas, Mom knew best, I realize that now,
15-month-olds are full of ideas but not much know-how,
Leave them for a moment and your home is a mess,
The tampon box emptied (right in front of your guests).
Sometimes I think you’re actually punking me,
Toilet papering our house, hiding my keys.
(She’s got great comedic timing, you see,
When the diaper’s off, she grins devilishly — and pees.)
Oh, 15-month-old, you certainly have issues.
You just can’t stop ’til you’ve emptied the tissues.
A little voice must tell you to dump the bowl on your head,
And to smear premium sunscreen all over the bed.
30% minion, with a dialect only you know.
25% bobble head, you lead with it wherever you go.
20% Stay-Puft, mischievous eyes scan left to right.
15% Beastie Boy, you no-sleep-til-Brooklyn all night.
So what’s the other tenth, you may find yourself asking,
The part that doesn’t require endless multi-tasking?
Well, that’s the part that keeps us mamas in love,
The very essence that the 15-month-old is made of.
It’s that sweetness that’s nestled down deep at your core.
When I kiss you goodnight and you baby-sign “more,”
It’s the grins and the giggles, the thrill at everything new,
That makes me want to get up and spend tomorrow with you.
