In the quiet hours, while the moon hangs high, A child may dream as the night slips by. Yet beneath the stars and the peaceful night, Comes a gentle flow, unseen to sight.
Enuresis, a word that softly tells, Of nights when the bladder, in slumber, swells. Primary it starts, when control is slow, A path that many children know.
Bladders too small, still learning their pace, As deep sleep holds them in its warm embrace. Genes may play a hand, a family line, Or the body makes too much in time.
Secondary comes when dry months pass, And yet the wet returns, alas. Perhaps it’s stress, or deeper fears, That call the bedwetting back with tears.
For some it fades as years drift on, The dawn will come, the dampness gone. But for a few, the road’s not clear, And special care may dry the tear.
Bladder training, patient and slow, Or alarms that wake when the stream begins to flow. Medication too, a path that’s tried, But love and support stand firm by their side.
In time, the nights will bring no dread, And dry will be the child’s bed. For enuresis, though a challenge to face, Will fade away, leaving no trace.
