Your son gave out a screechy warning,
That there was poop in his bum,
So he threw me out of my own room, his beloved mum,
Next, he wanted to clean his mess,
By removing his nightdress,
Only in granny’s room,
Post bum washing, the pink towel that was meant to wipe his moist bum was met with gloom,
He screamed the whole building down,
And got rid of his frown,
Only when he saw his stark white bath towel,
Then he lowered his growls,
And dried his bum,
Without being glum,
I pictured you then,
Still in your sleepy zen,
Annoyed on being woken up,
With an unceremonious baby blow up,
“Please! Let me sleep”,
“I need my sleep”,
The baby would place his freshly washed bum on your face,
In response, to your need for space,
“Let’s go to Starbucks”, would be your next move,
My initial reaction would be to disapprove,
And then give in,
To your unreasonable whim,
In hindsight, those early morning breakfast buffets,
And coffee dates, were the best start to our otherwise monotonous days.
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