what's next

We walked Tuck to school and wandered home.  He ambled around the back yard wearing cheap plastic binoculars from the toy chest at the library, sing-songing birdy birdy, tweet tweet.

He grew tired of looking for birds and, not really sure what to do with himself without his brother around, wondered What's next?

I needed to run a couple quick errands, so strapped him in his carseat.  He asked to visit the playground with all the rocks, pointing out the back window at a cemetery as we drove past.

He ate lunch on the edge of the front porch, legs dangling over the side, watermelon juice dripping down his tummy.  I not have any eye brows, he worried.  If I eat healthy foods, I can grow eyebrows?

I gave him a clean rinse before nap time, and before I could towel him off he needed to watch the bath water disappear down the drain.  It's a water-tex, Mom!

He chose a story about hefflalumps and the cartoon bear he calls Honey the Pooh.  

I woke him early to walk down the hill with me to get his brother.  I stroked the coppery fuzz of nap-frizzed hair, hugged him close as I stepped out the back door and opened the umbrella.  This is not a great day, Mama, he said.  He wasn't ready to be awake, wasn't eager to get wet.  Was feeling a little sad about Tuck being away at school.

It seems impossible that any of this could be forgotten, silly that I feel like I need to write it down.  Despite the fact that the day stretches on and on, it also seems to disappear in a blink.  What feels infinite and routine and too cute to forget will show up as just a blip on the hindsight radar, swept away by the winds of whatever's next.