by E K Stapleton

Created on: April 17, 2008

The fight is on,
The battle begins,
The last one standing,
Is the one who wins.

My opponent is small,
Doesn't carry much weight,
Still puts up a struggle,
It fills him with hate.

It's three o'clock,
The time has come,
Nap time indeed,
For my two year old son.

The tears start to roll,
The screaming a blare,
It's times like this,
I know how I got gray hair.

He tries to hide,
Under the table, he goes,
You can't fool your mother,
Your hiding spots, she knows.

He's kicking and screaming,
Up the stairs we go,
All the while he's yelling,
No, no, no, no, no.

The bed is in sight,
I head through the door,
As I lay him in it,
He throws himself to the floor.

The whimpers get softer,
The yawning begins,
He's rubbing his eyes,
Finally giving in.

I've held my ground,
I won't be beat,
He closes his eyes,
And admits defeat.

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