second and seven

He used to fit in the football hold beneath my arm.
And today he headed to second grade.

He is seven, and a little more heartbreakingly self-conscious. Our backyard, it seems, is no longer an acceptable location for a small male nudist colony. He is sensitive to his own limitations and occasionally frustrated by lack of immediate success in new endeavors. He suddenly believes in “boy colors” and is aware of words like nerd and fat. Maybe this is all just a normal part of growing up.  And isn't that what we've always hoped he would do.

Tucker is smart as a whip. He is an incredible reader, artistic and easy to please, radiant and clever. He reminds me on the reg that ingenuity is not the province of grown ups.
He writes stories and spins tales, some that feel like they take days to reach a point, but still.  I know that in a few short years I will be glad to listen for four hours while he works out whether a girl winked or maybe she didn’t wink at him.
He is a handsome devil, a kind brother, an ever curious boy.
I wonder whether he'll be a scientist or an architect, a teacher or an animal trainer or all of the above.

I don’t want to project myself onto him though - thoughts, feelings, skills - as if the projecting would make it so. He is my son, not a suggestion box.  I know that.

He has warm eyes and a wide smile, just like grandma says, and that's really all he needs. He'll take those things, along with all of our support and reassurance, to school this year.  And he'll be just fine.
He is both a masterpiece and a work in progress, our sweet second grader.