We do not have plans to fly to New York.

I had to wake Tuck, had to rush him through getting dressed, eating breakfast, brushing his teeth.  I kneeled in front of him and he opened his mouth wide while I zipped his hoodie, gulping air before he spoke his first coherent thought: Why do people yawn?

Although I interpret my own yawns as silent screams for coffee, I didn't have a scientific explanation.  I suggested he ask his father.

Tuck is like a groom married to inquiry.  I mean, he's a polygamist: he loves soccer and chips and salsa and Legos, too.  But boy is he always puzzling over stuff, voicing important questions I've never thought to ask.  I did find myself wondering whether the way his brain works could be contributing to his exhaustion.

After school the boys got flu vaccines.  Tucker lamented the car trip and the waiting room wait, complaining that it was taking time away from kicking his soccer ball.  I began to explain why the appointment was important, and he interrupted:  I know, Mom, now when I fly to New York on an airplane and I sit next to a guy from Mexico, the New York people and the Mexicans will not get sick.  He went on to say that if the guy from Mexcio flew to Italy, and the Italian guys flew to California and then those guys flew to France, none of them would get sick.  Part of me wanted to give him a megaphone.  The other part of me, the part that needed another cup of coffee, asked him to finish the story inside his own head.

Tuck's mind is not the kind of thing I can uncover with a metal detector or observe with a magnifying glass, and his queries are rarely the ones I expect.  Still, I don't need to see it or anticipate it to appreciate his way of thinking.
We do not have plans to fly to New York.  And I cannot explain the physiology behind yawning.
But I did always wonder a little about what it would feel like to hold a moonbeam in my hand.  And now I think I know.