This week I’m putting up two poems from 17 years ago, from time with the kids. In case you don’t know them or the story, both of my children were a challenge to raise. Each of them spent too much time in principals’ offices, on suspension, under behavior contracts, in recommended or required therapy. I think they were similarly recalcitrant and delinquent, but the school authorities took Danny more seriously. As far as we could perceive, that was simple sexism.

This sonnet commemorates the year of what we called his evolution.

The other night, she asked her little one,
who’s near as tall as she at twelve years old,
“So now that you’ve become the perfect son,
what shall we work upon?” And then she told
the therapist as much, so all agreed
to meeting less, and with a happy sigh
she thought “My job is done – there isn’t need
for more from me – it’s okay if I die.”

That perfect son last night put off his math
to watch a show and play, and facing it
with little time, he leaked a bit of wrath,
responded to her helping with a fit,
and finally he called his mom a jerk.
He showed her they’re not done. She still has work.