bond of brothers

The boys share DNA and a last name. They share toys and clothes and snacks and imaginary worlds. They share our time and attention, room on the couch, whittling tools and, at times difficult, a Nintendo Switch. They share bedrooms and cat chores and, fingers crossed, a forever sense of responsibility to look out for each other.


bless this mess



snow daze

There for a minute it felt like we were shoveling snow while the snow was still falling.

Shoveling may be a good way to deal with discomfort in a heightened time of not knowing what could come next?

When I ask myself what the boys are like without a pandemic, the answer is mostly the same - they eat, they sleep, they play. It's fine.

Still, we were all grateful for a deviation from the daily monotony.



There are many kinds of winter. 
The holidays, the darkness, the brutal cold, the lingering wet, the still so far from spring. 
Also, as far as the boys are concerned, the accumulation and unending related snow activities this month.


love is (unfortunately) not the only thing in the air

but we can spread it without spreading the virus...


time passes


in the laugh of luxury

My paints are frozen! Hank howls.
I remind him how water colors work.
Oh, that's right, it's a pattern, water-paint-paper. I forgot the water first!

At the piano, working on a new song: Hey Tucker, what do you do when you get to a note with a hashtag?

He is nearly five years old and reminds us that almost everything is interesting, even when nothing is happening.

When he is not crafting or counting by elevens he might be playing Do Re Mi for the nine hundredth time or practicing Olympic moves on the rings that hang in our bedroom closet.

How many more loaves of laundry do you have to fold? he asks, hoping to read another chapter of Mrs. Piggle Wiggle together.
I know how you feel, Mom. Ugleast you have me to help with socks, he sighs.

From the bath tub he hollers in a voice louder than the overhead fan and the falling water, listing a catalogue of likes and dislikes, buttered noodles and tertiary colors and folding clothes.

His eagerness to offer the best he has and knows, all of it, every single detail, can feel (to most of us) rather exhausting. Fortunately he facetimes grandparents a lot and they are all very good listeners.

When I grow up, he explained last week, if I'm rich I'm gonna buy a pet tiger. What's the job you get the most money from? It's taxi driving, right? I'm gonna be a taxi driver and have a pet tiger!
When did we tell him it was too expensive to catch a cab?
Ugleast he has goals. 


or reason

I write myself notes, scrap paper reminders without rhyme
make math worksheets, clean rogue cracked egg
ordinary, tedious, annoying.
Does the sun ever struggle to rise, I wonder?
Everything sad feels true.

Though what can I do with breath in the morning
but give thanks
and be sure all the mittens are dry.
A little gratitude in the shape of her shadow
and still so many figuring outs.

A pandemic is a particularly complicated time to be a person.
What good is a day without noticing
the commonplace and the miraculous?
Rushed and sloppy and irritated and alive
more interesting than perfect.

Living inside question marks, the unending togetherness
there is power in knowing what we don't know
the small particulars, turning stones.
The widespread boredom, the ubiquitous snack requests
ordinary, tedious, divine.