I have small children. I live in Turkey.

I muster strength and pull up emotional reserves.
Collect the kids. Find the shoes.
Don’t lose them while you get your own.
Cloister them in the elevator corners while

piercing eyes watch stray hands and fingers.
Down the stairs. Into the car. Buckled.
The most restful part of the day. Silence.
I have small children.


I muster strength and find the bravado.
Rev the car over the gaping ditch that

the lazy kapici won’t have covered,

up the hill blindly, hoping there are no people or

cars just about to cross my line of vision.
To the corner where the kapici smokes all day

and the bank security refuse to tell customers

not to leave their cars angled across my street

as I tense my shoulders and breath deeply

hoping I’ll make the turn and not get hit from the left

because I can’t see that direction either,

for all the doubled park cars.
We’re off. Shoulders relax. Sunglasses on.
I live in Turkey.


I muster strength and search in vain for patience.
Avoid the swarms of pedestrians.
Don’t stop when your side view mirror knicks a guy.
Close your eyes when the road feels too narrow to pass.
Beep when only your presence (in a car)

reminds everyone THEY ARE ON A STREET!
Find your spot in the parking lot

where you’re willing to pay 5mTL for the 15 minutes you’ll be at the doctor because taking a taxi or parking on the street requires too much strength.
I live in Turkey.


I muster strength and pray a desperate prayer for grace.
Just squeeze Ella’s hand when she squirms

out of my arms and wrestles free from my grip.
Threaten spankings and bribe with candy when Aidan’s

wildness and monkey behavior reaches embarrassment.
Try to smile when Ella dumps out the tongue depressors

(which shouldn’t have been at arms reach for a one year old!)

and Aidan pulls lose the stethoscope from the wall.
Resist the urge to slap and pull earlobes

when Ella takes off running down one hall corridor

and Aidan the other,

when, for a few minutes,
all you can hear is wild laughter but see no one.
I have small children.


I muster strength and fight back salty drops.
On the third day in a row the doctor re-explains the directions.
The lab technician rambles off in

Turkish medical terminology and you realize your daughter

may have a parasite, but your misunderstanding

has delayed vital test results
and when the lab guy asks if you understand

or if English would be better

you refrain from punching him and screaming,

why didn’t you say you knew English!
And as you cross the street to the pharmacy

a man gives Aidan a huge wad of cotton candy without asking.
I live in Turkey.


I muster strength and try to laugh.
A friend stops by.
In the mere minutes that you chat in the entryway

and redirect attention from the monkeys,

Aidan pulls books off the shelf and dumps 50 magazines out of a basket.
Without noticing or detecting the silence as a warning they continue.
Soon they come into the foyer and noses are black,

clothes covered in… what?
The chimney. They’ve climbed into the fireplace.
Shame on you for not watching for 5 minutes.
Score 1 for the monkeys.
The week ends. You tally points. They are winning.
I have small children.
I live in Turkey.

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