I heard you talking, Mom and Dad,
While I was fast asleep.
(Well, really I was wide awake,
But didn’t make a peep.)
You said I’d be too short, too scared,
That when I woke I’d be
In charge of carrying the bags –
Just coats and Mom and me.
The next day came and sure enough
You started with the spiel:
“There’ll be other fun things to do,
But really we just feel
That you’d enjoy the carrousel –
That maybe that’s for you.”
I huffed and cried and told them all:
“That’s totally not true.”
I mean, to think that I’d be scared.
To think I couldn’t cope!
I’m six years old now – NOT JUST FIVE –
And really I would hope
That my own parents (yes, that’s you)
Would be able to see
Just quite how great a space explorer
Your daughter might be.
We walked on over, bags in hand,
And I let out a sigh.
We watched the cannon, saw the smoke
Crawl up towards the sky.
And then it struck me, hard and fast:
That this was not for me.
That possibly the carrousel
Was just where I should be.
Of course, I didn’t tell a soul –
I swore I’d have been fine.
Insisted time and time again
That I’d have joined the line.
But really? No way, Tiki bird.
Jeez, not a chance in hell.
I grabbed onto my mother’s hand:
“Let’s find that carrousel.”