Twas the night before this one, and all through this house,
There is crap piled in corners and boxes throughout,
Though our Christmas tree's heavenly scent fills the air,
All the toilets are dirty, the sinks filled with hair;
So what to my aching mom eyes should appear,
But the glistening chance to do Advent 'right' this year.
No music of Christmas, no garlands of lights,
Just 4 simple candles, which we light every night.
Though the Christmas tree stands, its branches are bare,
And I pretend piety - not sloth - got us there.
While my dishes are soiled and the laundry piles higher up,
I sit on the floor while Joey wheels me his fire truck;
Which is captained by Mary and St. Joseph dolls,
Though not baby Jesus, he's hiding from all
Until Christmas morning when we will awake,
And rush to the kitchen, mimosas to make;
And while I sigh and I survey the squalor around me,
I marvel at His love - in chaos, He found me