Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood


She vomits on the tire swing,
an ominous beginning.

Over breakfast, she told me
she wants to stay three.

How do I explain time's arrow,
always departing Grand Central?

She is four. No one can cheat
the fourth dimension's heave.

I police the piñata bat.
It slips from my hand.

I intercept a wild whack
just inches from her face.

Dayna Patterson thinks third graders are wonderful, old enough to be independent, young enough not to have hit puberty’s wall. It is a sweet, sweet spot she’ll be sorry to relinquish as her daughters grow.

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favorite line "how do I explain time's arrow,/always deparating Grand Central?" This is their childhood for me, it is all just click-clack train departing away. lovely poem. xo
this is GREAT. i love it. the violence and sickness against the sweet, delicate age. so true to life.
I can feel this poem, I remember the bat. Bitter sweet, beautiful.
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