Tolliver is two

With penny colored hair and courage to burn, with q-tips sticking out of both ears and cabinet-raiding guilt written across his face, he steps out of the bathroom.  He is curious and silly and sharp as a tack.  He can hold up two fingers and say the word “two,” but when you ask him how old he is he crosses his arms over his chest as if predisposed to noncompliance.  Except he’s not.  It’s just that he has the sensitivity of a divining rod, moods like weather fronts, just that he is experimenting with independence in the way that toddlers do.  It's just that he is two.  If you ask whether he’d like to read books he sing-songs yessir, yessir and the smile that spreads across his face rivals the sun.  

On Tuesdays his teacher tries to apologize for the paint all over this clothes while sand from the playground pours from his pockets and corn kernels from the sensory table spill from his cuffs.  He is busy and bold and wildly amusing.  We derive such pleasure from his company.  Except in bed.  Sleeping with him is like sleeping with the hands of a clock.  Or with an octopus.  Something all arms and legs, a perpetual motion machine.  But during the day we derive such pleasure from his company.  Healthy and hale, he points and we realize there are exclamation marks all over the place.  With a little boy who’s seeing it all for the very first time, we are too.