When I was young, I thought you had no life
except to shop and clean and give us food.
You did for Dad the duties of a wife
and somewhat more, with your impatient mood,
and for we three that you with him produced,
provided all you thought that children need.
Then I, by dashing industry seduced,
assumed you didn’t like to think, or read.

So much of you was like an iceberg then,
submerged beneath responsibility.
You hid yourself and grew, and grew again,
till you became a learning prodigy.
The way you’re thinking now appears so sage
I’m starting to look forward to my age.