I'd happily accept your praise
For mothering on my bestest days.
But if I do, then I also must
Bear the brunt of your disgust
When mommy's rules you do not like
And you'd like to see me take a hike.
You're a fickle bunch, you see,
Shifting sands, your thoughts of me.
So I'll eschew the credit and blame
For the never-ending Parenting Game.
Come to me in fifteen years:
We'll work things out over well-poured beers.
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