It's a few weeks to Christmas, this you all know.
Here in the south, we've not seen any snow.
The air nips with northerly chill, the grass is quite brown.
It's all snug in the Peters' home, but this is said with a frown.
For this late autumn evening holds a mix of delight and chagrin;
it's bathtime for the little uns- that's where this poem begins.
Daddy wanders upward, prodding girls and boy along.
Beckoning them to tub with a happy bathtime song.
For a moment things sound cheery and all seems at ease;
but brief is this retreat unto noises that have the power to please.
The next noise arises, a scream and then death-like cry.
I spring up stairs in a panic, to see the carnage with my own eyes.
There stands eldest daughter, holding up her thumb and wailing with all her might.
It seems littlest sister slammed said thumb in the drawer tonight.
With great care and compassion (something I had to coax to the surface),
tears were dried, forgiveness given, and on toward bath at my behest.
Again rang out the sounds of children bubbling over with glee.
Water splashes and happy giggles flowed from the tub out to me.
But then again the joy was shattered by my eldest girl's desperate cry,
"Oh! Help help help!" sprang from behind closed door. "Is this something I want to see?" said I.
"The water's on my head and it's running in my eyes!
The soap is making them sting! Please help!" continued her cry.
Then great whooshing of water and thumpings of feet,
as Daddy made the rescue and I beat hasty retreat.
Now all are clean and dry and bedtime has come (at last!);
with story and prayers, kisses and hugs, this time should be easier than bathtime passed.
So with great hope of an evening of peace, and no more tears this night,
I wish Merry Christmas to you all and, I pray, a truly good night.
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