 This photo is terribly out of focus because the habitat was dimly lit, but it is still clear who went to sleep first. Yellow armadillos snoozing,
naptime at the zoo. These guys are usually playing But today there's something new: A double-decker armadillo, one stacked on the other! I wonder how they choose just who's to snooze on top its brother. Do they chat about it nicely? Do they argue? Flip a dime? Have a gentlemen's agreement? Is it different every time? In the middle of the night, Does their mother make them swap? I think whoever stays awake the longest Gets to sleep on top! About this poem: My kids and I visit the zoo so often we've named many of the animals. These little yellow armadillos we call Malcolm and Griffin, after my boys. They're usually digging in the sand or chasing each other playfully (I think....). Not today. "Armadillo" is an easy rhyme with "pillow," but there were no pillows in sight today--just an armadillo bunk bed!
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 ...there's SOMETHING weird perched somewhere up there in our family tree... 2020© Betsy Etchart Uncle Bobby says I hatched from an
egg with polka dots. He says my brother hatched from one with pink and purple spots. He says our mother sat on us for forty-seven weeks before we pecked ourselves out of our shells with pointy yellow beaks. Uncle Bobby says the webs between our toes dissolved and then our stubby wings fell out before our spindly arms evolved. I think I don’t believe him. But (just between you and me)? There’s something strange perched somewhere up there in our family tree. About this poem: When my boys were about three and four, the oldest asked if he'd come from an egg. I said yes, and continued with what I thought was a brilliantly simple yet accurate response. My listeners glazed over, then dismissed it as nonsense. So the next time he asked, I said, yes, they'd hatched from eggs alright—Malcolm's had a purple shell and Griffin’s was green. That was much more satisfying for all parties. There is a time and a place for lying, and it is in the home when you have small children. (That of course is a lie!) Writing this poem, I thought about how everyone feels like their family is a little bit (or a lot bit) strange and crazy. Uncle Bobby (who in real life is a family friend and bears no resemblance whatsoever to the adult in this picture) became the teller of the tall (or not so tall???) tale. |
authorMs. Betsy's oldest surviving poem is one she wrote in the third grade. "Down in the Sewer" didn't make her popular, but it made a small group of loyal fans very cheerful. Some of the latest poems she's written, "Six Poems of the Galapagos," will appear in Cricket Magazine in the summer of 2020. She hopes they'll reach a wider audience than her first poem did, and make more people cheerful...and possibly provoke some thoughts, as well. Archives
October 2020
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