I turn to ask Morgan, my six year old, to stop chewing on his shirt,
and he asks me for the car keys, and I wake up on the floor next to his crib
counting breaths, he's sick, it's what the book said to do, and
Morgan's crying; his baby brother has crushed his Tinker Toy tower.
Morgan's crushed the front end of the car, and part of his brother's leg.
Morgan's talking so early, he puts on Daddy's tie and says he's "goin' to
work, Mom," and Morgan's talking so much he's failing circle time in
preschool, and his wife can't get a word in, and he's talking to me on the
phone about why she left. Morgan's running, but tripping. His toes turn in
and we buy corrective shoes. Morgan's running track and Cross-Country,
and he's crossing the country in his first new car to live almost as
far away from us as before he was born.

Svea Barrett-Tarleton

My mother always told me I should be cursed with a daughter just like me. Instead I have three sons who are their own kind of curse, and many blessings, too.

If you've any comments on this poem, Svea Barrett-Tarleton would be pleased to hear from you.
Problem Children

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