more of March

It's spring break and we are navigating the energies of five humans in the house, with venn diagram agendas that do not all intersect. Some of us want to dye Easter eggs, and some of us want to tie up the loose ends of approximately eighty five other projects first, and there are sideways emotions that come as a result.

The sunshine feels medicinal. So do books.

After an entire Saturday at Science Olympiad, on his first actual day off in at least a month, Tucker read All Thirteen, the incredible cave rescue of the Thai boys soccer team. He also studied a video about microtonality, explaining to us later how the space between two music notes is divided into a hundred sections, called cents.

Since the musical, and after a successful audition to join the select choir, Tucker has received plenty of recognition for his vocal skills. His responses have been admirably mature - he seems not at all mixed up about the attention, enjoying both its warmth and its scrutiny, hoping to have fun and to improve. He'll travel with the high school choir to New York City next week.

If you could get rid of one word in the English language, what would it be? Tucker asked, before he sought permission to ride his bike to Scioto Audubon with friends, like all of my answers come easy.

Tolliver continues to fill his days with action verbs. Everything he touches begs to be described by a string of exuberant adjectives. He's been to the flea market and the new ice cream shop, to the hardware store and to Cane's, and has spent hours in the neighbor's garage, sketching and chiseling and sanding wooden weaponry.

City workers came to our door one day last week, mentioning they'd received several reports of a homeless encampment in the woods.  It didn't take long for the yellow vested parks superintendent to recognize the handiwork of imaginative preteens - he made it clear that he'd rather have kids laying accidental claim to city property than inside on screens, and that he was very impressed by evidence of their preparedness to build adequate shelter should the need arise.

When I watch Tollie play with his posse, running through the yard like wild animals and digging up the cookies they've hidden underground near the fort, I am reminded how we all seem to be born with the idea that people are decent.

Mom, you know the truth is sad sometimes, right? Hank asked from the back seat recently, pulling me from my own spread of concerns, spanning elementary to high school to mid-life. I'm not sure if his deep thoughts are particularly acute and possibly temporary, or if we're in this place for the long haul, but lately his brain never rests. Nor does his chatter. 

After having white cheddar shells in his lunch box one day last week, Hank suggested pasta for dinner that evening - because macaroni is like a different noodle species than the other pastas.

Cleaning up a fort this morning, he folded a blanket neatly and explained that he could only get it into sixteenths: I tried for thirty-seconds but it just kept popping open.

Working out the presidential melody for Hail to the Chief, Tuck suggested from the dining room that Hank was using minor chords and trying majors might sound better. Without skipping a beat Hank shifted his fingers and the song rang true.

The screen door is open and loose ends fly everywhere but I notice a momentary symphony of cooperation drifting through the house too.