This poem, by Malvina Reynolds:
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I wish you were here to get underfoot;Â
I wish you were here to get in the way;Â
To call me from work;Â
To call me to play;Â
I wish you were here again.
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What was I doing that had to be done?
And what was I reading that had to be read?
When I could have turned to watch you, instead.
I wish you were here again.
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Also, I think to myself, hundreds of times daily, "Does it really matter?" Â As in, does it matter that he's running circles around the kitchen, screaming in delight, while I'm cooking? Â Most often, it doesn't. Â If it doesn't matter, I don't stop it.