fourteen

Dear Tucker,

You wake up every morning, grown. I mean you walk out of your bedroom but seem to keep rising, as if you could tear a hole in the ceiling, in earth's atmosphere, as if you might not cease until you scrape the stars. Taller than both of us now, you look as if you've been placed here expressly to pin so much beauty to the planet.

You fill spiral notebooks with endless scribble and 2D daydreams. There are at least sixteen half-read books beside your bed - Flatland and Gathering Moss, King and the Dragonflies and How Do Meerkats Order Pizza? And always, the giant Oxford dictionary. 

You are a lean forward learner. Sometimes it's so far toward a screen you almost disappear into the device completely. Often it's bent down examining nature, sweeping floodlights over earth's surface with your eyes. Or arched over a new recipe, and devouring whatever's on your plate.

When you have a bumpy day, or make a poor decision, we try to remember that your database isn't nearly full yet, and are grateful you have so many good people helping populate it. We do our best to set decent expectations, to give you the kind of restrictions that provide both support and something to push against. We want you to advocate for yourself, and expect you to practice on us. And we want you to know us as askable parents. Questions especially welcome before, like, 10pm.

At night you tend to pour a tall glass of analysis, a valiant effort to build a bridge past bedtime. Always with an opening conversational gambit, revealing the innermost depths of your soul right before lights out. Once the sky is dark, debates around the kitchen counter feel like passing a bill through congress - the most overused metaphor, the notion of democracy, black beans or refried.

You decided, after weeks and weeks of confirmation classes, to join the church.

You know that very smart people have been asking questions about religion for many years and have come up with different answers, and you seem comfortable with the idea that it may all be a wonderful mystery. You believe in the magic of things that exist beyond what you can see and touch and even explain. You seem to find joy in the wonder, to trust that you don’t need all the information to appreciate the production. 

We were asked to write about how you make us proud, for the church bulletin:

We could pour an ocean onto the page in an effort to describe the ways Tucker makes us proud. He is kind and sensitive, humble and creative. He walks friends home after school and looks for ways to help in the kitchen. He works hard to master high level math concepts and can turn small black dots into beautiful piano music. He has the sort of heart that sticks to things, the kind of humor that draws everyone in, and he always, always says thank you. Tucker adds so much joy to family life at our house! He brings energy to the room and thoughtfulness to the conversation. He is forever curious and deeply observant and makes the rest of us wonder right along with him. He makes little cousins feel big and special, and supports his brothers in their own endeavors. He makes us all pretty happy just by hanging around.

If there is anything you're ever totally secure about, Tucker, please let it be our love.

Mom