Our babies are learning to be rockets,
drinking fuel in their formula,
transforming cribs into launch pads,
counting down before collapsing for naps.
We're excited about having the first infants
in space, envision them releasing boosters
on their ways to Mars.     Some parents
feel we're being too irresponsible.
What about pink and blue blankets,
mobiles and educational toys,
listening to Mozart for bigger brains,
reading to them to improve vocabulary?
Didn't we know our progeny
would end up blown to pieces?
Our neighbors' re-usable space shuttle child
was entering third grade, God willing,
and wasn't that preferable to burning up
as they re-entered the atmosphere?
A cycle of life would lose its wheels
if we let them fly out the Solar System.
We'd be sad when there was no life,
carrying our rattles and baby chairs
to the curbs for pick up by Goodwill.
We refused to listen to doomsayers,
prepared stands for crowds on porches,
rented video cameras to record the event,
Heat shield diapers would protect them.
Our bedroom mission command centers
would check for weather delays.
On the appropriate day we'd wheel
our children into backyards, kiss them,
salute their bravery. They remember
their coordinates. All that's left is
to gasp in awe as they leave the earth,
pat ourselves on the back for the life
we've delivered to the universe.
They'll discover more than we ever did
on this planet after hundreds of years
surviving, always looking for a way up.