A few things are possible.

But not everything, not all at once, I remind myself. One thing at a time.

Last week was here for so long. The boys had a couple days off, and then one had a fever so missed even more school, and another was in Washington DC. The election came and went, without a wave, remarkably. It is possible to drown in just a few inches of water though, and my worries still have worries. 

Stay hydrated, listen to excellent music, take a walk, I do the things I know to do.

The house is a conveyor belt, plates of food, piles of clothes, vitamins, permission slips, piano practice, library books. 

Listening to the boys is like scanning the car radio:

Imagine having sixty fingers and toes, Hank says from a reclined position in the tub. You would have fifteen fingers on each hand!

Have you seen the little surfboards you can hold out the car window to ride the wind? Tolliver wonders from across a table of chips and queso. Don't worry, it has a finger leash so you won't lose it.

You know, snakes can learn to behave in response to light cues, Tucker explains, noticing that Darwin comes to the back door when we turn on the patio string.

Is How are you? a dumb question, I wonder. When was the last time anyone on planet Earth has actually been, like, really okay?

The house is a combustible engine, so much pressure in a confined space. The boys burn fuel to create energy, Garfield and Neil Gaiman, burritos and biscuits. I'm not convinced every exhaust gas is evacuated effectively?

What's the grossest flavor of ice cream you can think of? Like octopus with cactus gravy, for example.

If three plus five is the same as four plus four, why aren't three times five and four times four the same?

You know the government of Figi is relocating entire villages, right? To escape rising sea levels?

I take a giant deep breath and bite the inside of my cheek, trying to formulate an answer that is both reassuring and true. 

The most beautiful things about this world don't make the headlines. 

I've been a mother long enough to know how little I know.