When you were a newborn, I said I believed in you,
then wondered why you couldn't sleep the night through.
Before I knew it you were two years old,
and you wouldn't do what you were told.
That didn't matter though, I still believed in you,
for that very long trying year while you were two.
Then came the difficult ages of three, four, and five,
but I'll still believe in you while I'm alive.
It seemed at six years old, and also seven,
that perhaps you really were a gift from heaven.
That was a smoke screen, because at eight and nine,
I had to eat all of those words of mine.
From ten years old, until you were thirteen,
you were the most ornery kid I've ever seen.
From fourteen to sixteen didn't seem so bad,
I believed in you just like I always had.
From then through eighteen, you were great,
perhaps because you always had a date.
I believed in you and have since you arrived,
now you're married and gone and I still survived.
Come back and visit anytime you want to,
I'm so proud, and always, I believe in you.
Jim Garman (The Rapid Fire Poet)