the pitter-patter

A house with three small children, a three-year old, two-year old and ten month old is far from a home filled with the pitter-patter of little feet. When they are each wound up like giant mechanical toys, one could only wish they would wind down at the end of a few minutes. Their screams, cries and whys resound throughout the many hallways, out through windows and down short streets. As they chase each other across the wooden floor, their tiny feet sound like a herd of elephant heading for the wide open plains. Six feet, all leaving dust behind, or is it really a path of toys that mother will be left to clean up? Dust, toys, it all looks the same when the sun rises, the quiet night is over and the sandman has gone away. Six open eyes. Three yawning mouths. Six begging hands. Three dirty bottoms. Six stomping feet. There is no pitter-patter in such a home. Just the wild cries of jungle animals, all clamoring for the morning to give them attention. Mother hangs her head low and prays for night to return.

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