My Dad was on the sofa, intent on well-earned rest.
I was his baby daughter, asleep upon his chest.
No one ever warned me.
My god that man can snore.
As off to sleep he drifted. I slid off on to the floor.
Years later, I still tease him, as we joke at what was said
All because my father had dropped me on my head.

I pondered as I watched him,
Did he have the faintest clue
As to how to bring up children.
All the proper things to do?

I know that he was mortified as he retrieved his pride and joy.
Praying I would settle.
Well it hurt.
I’m not a toy.

Did they do a risk assessment on the day that I was born?
Were my parents deemed as suitable their duties to perform?
I may well sound excessive to question who I’ve got,
As I recall that tender moment, that reflects upon my lot.

Today and being older with a family of my own.
The kids think I’m all knowing, switched on and in the zone.
At times I find it easy, then occasionally,
Surprise…
I am distinctly lost and most certainly not wise.

These days I’m feeling mellow.
In touch with inner sage?
There’s a common false perception,
That perfection’s all the rage.

Do we feel that the creator of all life in human form,
Prefers that risks are managed,
As in health and safety norm?

Before this incarnation, are we offered life of ease,
To live in endless comfort undisturbed by slightest sneeze?
Should there be some hazards, fresh challenge to be met,
Not the ease of repetition from those days you soon forget?

Should we relish imperfection,
Embrace disaster too?
Is to understand the reason, the question overdue?
It’s there not as a nuisance or some act of awful god.
Recall the hidden purpose, whichever path is trod.

Of course, all this is theory.
When I recall what went before,
What on Earth was father doing when I slid off onto the floor?