Lately we see him beside our bed at 4am.
Early mornings are relatively slow, but it doesn't take long before he's full blast, no chill at all, filling the day with magic and mischief and mayhem.
One minute he is Spiderman, legs through the arm holes of the costume, face mask askew, careening down the stairs and climbing the walls.
The next minute he is under the bed, dousing an entire Playmobil village with water because there is a raging inferno.
And then he is near tears because he needs to pee and is stuck inside some superhero gear, or near tears because he can't find the right Lego guy, or near tears because he's tried, or near tears because his favorite swim shirt is not clean.
Occasionally he provides a nonchalant but persistent No when I ask him to help pick up blocks or help fold the costumes that litter his bedroom floor or take his plate to the sink.
Listening may not be his forte, I think, as I remind him of his promise, not more than three seconds ago, to stop pinching his brother.
Speaking is, though. He tells stories that go on for days and explains the world using words like edible and leverage and hypothesis and antagonizing.
Once in awhile he's quiet. And I do know to notice when the kind of quiet he's being has changed, when he becomes quiet in an ominous way. When he has drawn, blue marker directly on lowest white shelves, an entire science laboratory.
Some days parenting feels like a pop quiz, with an essay portion at the end. And I've missed too much class.
I read him two bedtime books, hoping to at least earn some bonus points.
I kiss him goodnight and cross my fingers that I got some of it right today. And that I won’t see him again before 6am tomorrow.
Tollie was late to bed and up at 4:30 when he stayed here the other night, and he decorated the sheets with an ink pen. Maybe we should teach him the word irrepressible! Tucker was curious about the fact that hairspray will take ink stains out of sheets and clothes. #askateacher
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