In the dawn of your days when the world was a game,

I asked you to tidy, to clean, and to tame

The chaos of youth, the untamed room's sprawl,

To learn from the rise after every small fall.

"Yes, ma'am" and "Yes, sir," the words that you'd say,

Not knowing their weight or the price they'd repay.

A chore here, a task there, a small daily grind,

Seeds sown in the soil of the young, growing mind.

You'd sigh and you'd frown, not seeing the gift,

The future you'd thank me for, shift after shift.

For life is a canvas, not always pristine,

And through your own mess, the truth must be gleaned.

Now you stand tall, in the world full and wide,

With manners that show and a grace you can't hide.

The beds made, the rooms clean, a life of your own,

The seeds have now blossomed from what I had sown.

"You'll thank me when you're older," I said with a smile,

Knowing well that the lessons would take quite a while.

And here you are now, with a thanks in your eyes,

For the mundane turned mighty, the simple made wise.

So when you tell tales to your own little one,

Remember the journey and all that was done.

For each "yes, ma'am" and "no, sir," and beds to be made,

Are the bricks in the path of the life that you've laid.