fourteen

Dear Tolliver,

You are suddenly less wild hair and strong opinions, more refined taste, bright but withholding, the king of nonchalance. You could, as they say, charm the rats off a cheesecake. Still, you know we will not spend $42 on the tiniest tube of hair pomade. But we will often accommodate a request for third dinner. You've leveled up on ramen, switching brands and adding garnishes, making something almost gourmet. You are growing in so many ways.

You have mostly aged out of your leap and lunge atmosphere, no longer so much like a large playful dog. You are still every young person's absolute favorite pal. You are not entirely focused on a ball rising into the air and falling toward a glove, but baseball is a very big part of your world. Your dad and I are proud of your effort in school, though even more pleased by the size of your heart, nevermind no one is collecting data on that. 

You know where your water bottle is and what size cleats you wear and which homework assignment is due next Tuesday. Your chair is never on all fours. But you do linger at the table longer, adding humor and curiosity to grown up conversation, open to pleasure and connection. You have an appetite like a wood chipper. Every time you feel alive you're being shown your vitamins. I think for you that might mean fresh air and dirt. You are like a spectacular sunrise, slides and shorts and a cozy new sweatshirt, the sky graduating from navy to flame.

I look back at baby pictures and can see your exact essence now in a way I was only just discovering then, so much embedded in your tiny features. I used to be the world's premiere expert on you, but you are your own expert now. I love you as shortstop and Sully and as a rising star, and I'm desperate to know every future version of you. While it is both a challenge and a joy, it is also an immense privilege, steering one of the people I love most in this world right out of my orbit. 

Happy birthday, bruh.

Mom