Amelia, our baby first,
in nine months have grown a third;
no speech, no talkie,
all she wants is walkie-walkie.
Being our first we naturally debate,
on how best to educate;
dolls for girls and guns for boys,
what nonsense, toys are toys.
Will she a doctor, lawyer or housewife be,
I live long hope to see;
right now she is just naughty,
and breaks the dining cutlery.
Of food she is choosy,
and eats most daintily;
she is chubby and she is fair,
we only lament her lack of hair.
Every now and then a few steps she takes,
tip-toe grace does not a ballerina makes;
like all parents our hopes high burn,
to a swan, our little Amelia turns.
Knowing games played by Fate,
we have decided, now of late;
to take the profit with the loss,
to let nature takes it's course.
The things of value we provide,
the self-life chart she decides;
this happy burden, we dare say,
is gladly borne, day-to-day.
As we look on her behalf,
down life's long and winding path;
we can only say, with a sigh,
sweet dreams and goodnight.