This is a part of the poem, Song for a Fifth Child by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton.
One of my mother’s friends made this for my mom when she was pregnant with her fifth child, my sister, Maureen.
It is framed and hung to the right of the front door at my parents’ house. I always loved the embroidery and it certainly sounded true. What I didn’t know before I had children of my own is how hard it is to quiet the cobwebs and let the dust sleep.
I need to make it clear that I do not have an exceptionally clean or neat house. We joke about the monster that eats socks while we rifle through the pile of clothes on the floor trying to find two that are the same size. (Color is a bonus.) I asked a friend who stopped over recently if she was shocked by the mess. She said lovingly, “I’ve been here before.”
I still hear the cobwebs scolding me and the dusty mantle taunting me while I sit on the couch playing This Little Piggy with Augusta.