So big!

Eight months in...
He gives leg hugs and wide, open-mouthed kisses.
He chews on drumsticks and glass jars and loves shoes and fans and the fireplace.
He plays "How big is Hank?" and waves Hi.
He climbs stairs and begs for food from big people's plates and has lots of fun in the bathtub.
He says things that sound an awful lot like Dada and Mama, and speaks the solid language of happiness.

Denver Adventure

Last Tuesday night it occurred to us that we could have a solid few days off together if Andy traded one shift and we allowed the boys to miss one day of school.
We are currently living in a space that is more confined than what we're accustomed to, so we thought why not wake each other up in a hotel room?
We spent a short time online looking for deals on flights, and landed on Denver.
We promised each other we'd maintain a sense of humor and bought the tickets.

We happened to arrive during a city-wide art festival, and several museums were offering free admission.  The boys enjoyed activities at the Denver Museum of Art and the Museum of Science and Nature.  We also went to the zoo and toured the US Mint.  The weather was fabulous, and we spent a ton of time outside.  We found playgrounds and libraries and coffee shops and a pizza place that offered brisket as a topping.  We enjoyed brunch and ice cream and happy hour and cookies and milk before bed.  All three boys were good travelers, mostly enthusiastic and generally good- spirited.  They have new stories about extreme mammals and flat stroller tires and the Rocky Mountains, and we all have a few nice memories of time together.

Indulge me.

on riding brooms and sugar highs

We didn't carve any pumpkins here this year, but we did carve out time for lots of other fun things. 

We enjoyed being BOOed, and eating ghost bananas and monster muffins, re-reading Halloween stories and watching The Nightmare before Christmas. 

The boys had multiple opportunities to wear their costumes - school parties and trick or treat events downtown and in our neighborhood.  Tolliver was thrilled to borrow a real storm trooper outfit, and Tucker was lucky that RoRo could help make his geode design come to life. Hank just played the part of chubby baby, and was loved on by lots of ghouls along our street.

Tuck and Tollie agreed that more than anything, the best part was passing out candy from our front steps. The real treat was that Andy could join us, now that he's finally done with the most recent round of graveyard shifts.

Right before bedtime tonight the big boys sorted their stash, kept a few favorites, and happily traded each of their piles (to be donated) for new books.

Also at bedtime: already talk of what they'll dress up as next year, and what kind of candy we should distribute.

The kids are okay.

The year of Tuck’s birth feels a little lost. Each day I got out of bed, drank coffee and cried, stayed in pajamas and pondered whether a mother so sad could raise an emotionally healthy child.

Together we got to know a few monsters by their first name.  We lived through so much misery and collected so many memories that right now, solid ground, feels very sweet.

Solid-er, I guess. I still fall into bed most nights unsure about what needs to be done. Is he okay?
There is love coupled with the responsibility of keeping him alive, the desire for him to grow up paired with the fear for his future. It all feels slightly contradictory.
Is he sad? Is he lonely? Is he bored? 
Can we protect him from physical danger yet simultaneously encourage him to take risks?  Will he control his impulses, think independently, ask for help when he needs it?
Will he be a responsible voter, a kind partner, a capable professional?
Sometimes I let him play video games for too long, and lots of times I don't bother washing his fruit and once in awhile I just nod and say yes and I'm not really listening and have I done permanent damage?

I wonder if suffering can be passed along from one generation to the next, like flexibility or dyslexia, like grace or big brown eyes?
I worry that dimly lit scenes of his dying sister, pale and gaunt, will play out behind his eyes forever, even when he smiles.

I think he's okay.  I think he is happy and confident and thriving.
I imagine him as a man and can almost see that he's followed his heart, but taken his brain with him.
And taken part of his sister, too.

and I feel fine

I don't often feel like I have time to do the things that make me feel better.
Like getting a handle on the laundry, for example.  Or organizing the pantry.  Or taking a bath.

I did take a walk this evening.  I do not want my body to be my project, but I do want to be healthy enough to tackle some.  I am pretty sure I might not get to much on the list for another five years, when all three boys are in school, but I'm training to be in excellent project-tackling shape by then.

Our house is under construction and if I had the opportunity to sit long enough I could likely watch the drywall dust settle on every single surface.
I try to restore order, and sanity, in small ways.  I've been organizing our bookshelves.  And I finally cleaned the van.

And I know, I KNOW, these are the best of times.  They are!
But you know how sometimes, for a split second, when everything is happening at once or when nothing is happening at all, these can feel like the raging dumpster fire of times?

The whole world is whipped and messy, leaves swirling and politics spiraling, and life seems like a depressingly chaotic approximation of some vague but perfect fantasy.
I need to feel in control of something.  My sleep is interrupted and my body does not belong to me and the boys are wild and the house is a hot mess.

We line up on the couch to read books.  Because when in doubt, that's what we do.
And so here we are at the end of another day, alive and fed, clean jammies and warm fire, plenty of books and plenty of bourbon and all the love in the world.

one second every day, fall