Tucker asked whether we'd have time for him to play baseball this spring, but was careful to add that if it felt like too much or if it might interfere with other things, he'd understand.
He is quick to say yes, to share what is his. Headed to a friend's birthday party over the weekend, Tolliver asked Tuck to spend the tokens he might win on a specific prize. None of us were surprised when Tucker walked in the door and handed over the new toy Tollie was hoping for.
Tucker senses when Hank's demands are beginning to deplete us, and is quick to redirect the baby or to read him a book.
He regularly changes his meal requests to match more closely whatever it his his brother has asked for, knowing that makes prep and clean up easier. It is also rare for him not to thank us for cooking.
He is patient and thoughtful and forgiving, the kind of audience that gives a standing ovation and throws roses even when I've forgotten my lines, split my costume or straight-up fallen off the stage.
But really, I tend to see him in the most amazing light. He is the star, like someone handed him a script with the definition of KIND. And he's nailing it.
While I can describe, in exquisite detail, the constellation of speckles across his face, or chronicle the way the colors of the sunrise get caught in his hair, he can talk about prehistoric creatures.
And while he explains what kind of fossils he's looking for or tells about the tools he'll need to make specific dinosaur discoveries, he flashes the biggest smile, and I get stuck thinking about that instead. It's ear to ear, really, the kind of smile that belongs in the Smithsonian.