Growth for the win

Lately everyone mentions how tall Tucker is getting, how big he's become.  And I agree.  But while he is growing I find myself in a role that seems to be shrinking.  I am trying to figure out how to be in this place of increasing witness, trying hard to be the mother he needs today, and tomorrow.

He can slip on his own shoes and buckle his bike helmet, he knows how to slice cucumbers and peels his brother's tangerines.  He puts away(ish) his own laundry and understands how the pantry works to restock the peanut butter when we reach the bottom of the jar.  He pumps strong legs on the swing instead of asking to be pushed and writes his own requests on the grocery list, watermelon and Doritos in six year old scrawl.

I can send him to brush his teeth while I clean up breakfast, the last few bloated Cheerios floating in his bowl.  I get a little frustrated when I ask him to do something five times, and then I remember that his residency is a wonderland of ideas.  I find him at the bathroom sink, lost in space.  I have to call him back to this world to get him to move the brush against his teeth, but he is capable of getting it done.

He counts to one hundred as fast as he can, adds thirteen three times just for fun.  He asks a million questions about the universe.

How many gallons of water does it take to hold up a human? Well, wait, not like a baby, like a grown up person, how many gallons?
I'm afraid I am better suited for doing dishes than talking about buoyancy and mass.

Hey, I think they were doing baseball over there, he points from the back of the car. 
Yeah, those are the baseball fields for the high school kids, I explain.
No, it wasn't a field, it was like a rectangular prism.
Oh, batting cages.  Of course.

Your eye ball is a sphere, right? he clarifies.  You just can't see the whole thing.
Yes, I think to myself, your eyeball is a sphere.  And your body is growing so fast...  And your mind is a marvelous machine.

When Tucker was born we wished mostly for a typical kid, an average athlete, the kind of boy who would earn passing grades and maybe roll his eyes at us.  He could miss curfew, try cigarettes, talk back.  As long as he was healthy, we said.

And he is.  Healthy, and growing.  Which is, when we're lucky, exactly what is supposed to happen.