Helping Tucker plan his sophomore schedule and reading a tall stack of senior scholarship applications, I notice myself wondering how all these young people seem to know who they are. Like I am 45 and aside from some flesh-bound manifestation of motherly love and maybe some stardust I have not a ton of confidence in who I am.
I like to sneak the cat leftovers at the back door.
I refuse to use actual moments of my wild and precious life reading a bad book.
But I will waste them cleaning the floor?
If Tolliver does not grow up to be a major league baseball star, he'll be very happy working as a park ranger and/or a history museum curator. Tuck's still interested in aquaculture but he'd also make a pretty solid piano accompanist. And Hank's current plan is to be an artist.
I am really good at rolling up a deflated air mattress and fitting it back into the original box.
And I am, apparently, the lady who not only feeds sourdough starter but also bakes and takes pictures of her bread?
I like to write.
Living with these three boys feels like a ready-made story factory, and most of the time I don't even know how to tell them all.
