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.