It’s not yet 7:00 am and Tuck wonders aloud Mom, sometime can I get a pet roadrunner?
As soon as he's made one request, he's articulating the next: I need an enormous pot. You know, a big one. Enormous is a cinnamon. Aunt Christen told me that.
The boys bathe together and Tollie cries eye bubble, eye bubble, soapy fists pressed firmly against stinging eyes. They've emptied an entire can of shaving cream, killing time before nap by drawing on the walls and on their bodies. I ask Tuck to be careful not to get it near his brother’s eyes. It’s okay, when Grandpa gets it on his face he just erasers it off. I think he meant razor.
Tollie sleeps and Tucker collects straws and batteries, wooden blocks and modeling clay, remotes and foam balls. He's building a Rube Goldberg machine or an Angry Bird course or a computer that tells you what kind of tree a leaf came from, and although these projects are the sort of work he prefers to do independently, he finds me in the kitchen. Can I borrow you for a minute? I need one more piece of help.
I dry my hands and hope to heaven that they'll ask me to dole out apple doof and provide pieces of help for years to come.
I hear the shaving creme was ticky.
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