Hold, please.

We're on the move...


clean up in aisle emotion

You know those times in life when you realize it may be the last time you’re going to do something and everything around you becomes very vibrant?



I can hardly keep up.




an incomplete list

Hanky is really good at lots of things!
Here's an incomplete list, at thirteen months:

shooting basketball

reorganizing the pantry

"reading" books to himself

keeping us awake all night

checking gravity (ie dropping things: food from highchair, toys from stroller...)

calmly signing milk and more

opening the refrigerator, and screaming for more milk

escaping the lap belt and standing up in the grocery cart

unpacking boxes

playing the piano

eating markers

sniffing his nose like a rabbit

waving and saying bye-bye



Tucker asked whether we'd have time for him to play baseball this spring, but was careful to add that if it felt like too much or if it might interfere with other things, he'd understand.

He is quick to say yes, to share what is his. Headed to a friend's birthday party over the weekend, Tolliver asked Tuck to spend the tokens he might win on a specific prize.  None of us were surprised when Tucker walked in the door and handed over the new toy Tollie was hoping for.

Tucker senses when Hank's demands are beginning to deplete us, and is quick to redirect the baby or to read him a book.

He regularly changes his meal requests to match more closely whatever it his his brother has asked for, knowing that makes prep and clean up easier.  It is also rare for him not to thank us for cooking.

He is patient and thoughtful and forgiving, the kind of audience that gives a standing ovation and throws roses even when I've forgotten my lines, split my costume or straight-up fallen off the stage.

But really, I tend to see him in the most amazing light. He is the star, like someone handed him a script with the definition of KIND. And he's nailing it.


giant dreams

While I can describe, in exquisite detail, the constellation of speckles across his face, or chronicle the way the colors of the sunrise get caught in his hair, he can talk about prehistoric creatures.
And while he explains what kind of fossils he's looking for or tells about the tools he'll need to make specific dinosaur discoveries, he flashes the biggest smile, and I get stuck thinking about that instead.  It's ear to ear, really, the kind of smile that belongs in the Smithsonian.


little things

Sometimes I wish for a wand to turn back time, a way to create space for relationships that will never be.
None of us are meant to overlap forever.  All of us are stuck loving hearts that will stop.
After a funeral and a few sad days, I'm finding some redemptive power in the little things :: a shared memory, a shock of tulips, another small silhouette against the same old back door frame.


kind heart, brave spirit

He filed a rock to give it a sharp tip, and taped it to a feather.  
Then he tied string to a stick, slightly bowed. 
There is, after all, just one letter difference between worrier and warrior.



I wonder how much we'll remember about this time, about this beleaguered, careworn feeling, undoubtedly brought on by the usual demands of child-rearing.
These days our house feels a bit overrun with boisterous children. There is a constant barrage of questions, a steady stream of requests and the firehose onslaught of plain old exuberant energy from three growing boys.
Thank goodness spring is showing up.  The sun started working again and the earth is coming back to life and the boys can be outside.
I don't spend a whole lot of time longing for ten minutes of silence or fantasizing about the day when peace might reign over the dinner table.  I am too busy referring fights and modeling civilized conversation and mopping up messes. When I do find a second in which I'm not being harassed by whatever's next, I usually whisper some gratitude for the noise and the chaos and the very full house.  Or I hide in the bathroom with chocolate.  Whatever.
No matter how it feels right now, smack in the midst of crazy, I know these years will fly by.  I love it - the loud and the messy and the exhausting - and I love them. So much. I know that given the choice of bedlam and the quiet order that may someday come, I'd opt for this period when I have to beg to be left alone. Over and over again, I would.