Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, goes the rain; pitter-patter
go the little feet.
But they aren’t so
little and they don’t pitter-patter.
in this house.
Here they clomp, tromp,
stomp, and stumble.
They trip over Barbies
and step on Legos.
They sneak into mommy
and daddy’s room every morning and lead the stampede to Daddy when he gets home
They climb the stairs on both sides of the railing, and they
climb every vertical path up bunk beds. They climb up the bookshelf to peek at
daddy’s collectible fire trucks.
they fall off the bookshelf and get trapped in a cast for a few weeks.
They still climb the bookshelf though!
These feet flail as
their owner is tickled, then they pause in mid air when the tickling stops and
he cries, “Again!
The feet chase a ball, push a truck, and they
climb out a window all on their own to chase the puppy that just escaped—never mind
the snow or the fact that the boots were left behind.
These feet turn black with the dirt and grime of the outside
every summer, and they flee to the playhouse and stand on their tiptoes to
flatten out against the fence in the silliest attempt to hide.
Those not so little toes burrow into the sand
on the beach and leap gleefully into any available body of water: be it the
ocean, the pool, or the muddy puddle next to big sister’s church shoes.
These feet launch a flying leap of a hug
after an agonizing absence, but they flee to the corner if there’s still more
playing to be done.
And they grow—oh, do they grow!
Day by day and hour by hour, they grow in
size and abilities both terrifying and exhilarating.
And when they crisscross to link the legs
around my waist as the arms and hands clutch my shoulders and the head is buried
into my neck, my own feet feel as though they’ll never touch the ground again.