Races

Today is not a race, replied Tucker, still in his undies.  The boys share a vent in the wall that connects their rooms, and from his side I had just thanked Tolliver for cooperating -Tollie, you're nearly dressed!- loud enough for Tuck to hear, hoping it might motivate him to move.

Ready to go, Tollie pulled up the gray hood of his waffle knit top and headed over to Tuck's room.  Da-tuck, me shirt, pink shirt!

Tollie is very interested in colors.  He clutches a red ball, my ball, pink ball.  He climbs into Andy’s black car, daddy car, pink car.  So, I guess, Tollie is very interested in a color.  Just this week though, eating M&Ms at his grandparents' house, he identified blue.  The bag seemed to be mostly full of pink, but Grandpa Rod reported at least one accurate blue.  We talk a bit about colors, but pink is pretty and we're not in any hurry for him to see less of it.

Tuck is very interested in winning.   I win the upstairs race.  I win the toothbrush race.  I win the pee race.  I win the jammie race.  I win the in bed race.  Except when someone else appears to be winning, and then Tuck suddenly seems to care very little, suddenly it's not a race at all.  We talk a bit about winning, and about the way that being kind is even better, planting ideas we hope will become his own inner voice.

I spent most of the day trying to hear his voice though, the one that, when I felt like we needed to hurry, reminded me that we really didn't.  We rarely do.
Today is rarely a race.  

I'll admit, this still kind of feels like a finish line.

***********************
Another reminder, about another not-really-a-race-except-for-the science-it-supports:

• In addition to OSU football tickets, other raffle items include a jersey autographed by Urban Meyer, product baskets from Tastefully Simple and Learning Express, a full session at Wendy's Gymnastics, handmade bags, refurbished antiques, gourmet coffee, dog treats and a money tree.  
• Split the pot tickets are available now, or the day of, one for $1 or six for $5, presence not required to win.
• If you're able to participate this year, and would like a shirt, please register ASAP.  The registration process, and the price, is the same for runners and walkers.  There will be a casual "turn-around" spot at the half mile mark for walkers to complete one mile. 

For more information, follow the Battling Batten Facebook page, or contact Sara Zeller at 513-607-9090 or sara.zeller@osumc.edu

our house

I stir cream into my coffee using the small silver spoon with her name on it, because it does the job and because I cannot find the courage to pack it away.  It’s at least 100 years old, having been her great great grandmother Celia’s first.  We used it to feed her oatmeal and applesauce for almost five years.

Tucker comes downstairs counting to see who's awake.  I set the hot mug on the side table as he crawls onto my lap.  There's only four of us who live in this house, but there used to be six.  We're missing five and six now.  

There's an exposed beam that runs the length of our kitchen ceiling, rumored to be from a barn built in the 1800s in Delaware county.  Tollie points up at it and says "houf."

We walk to the grocery, the boys sharing popcorn and grapes while I push.  Near the front of the store are bundles of firewood.  Know what that's for, Tollie? Tuck leans back in the stroller to ask.   
Houf, he replies, tilting the word up at the end, wondering.  
Yes, Tollie, you're right! Those are for kids like us to build our own houses.  Mom, can we get some?!

I wrote last week who she is.  And I realize maybe it should have been who she was.  I mean, some might say there’s a period on the sentence that was her life.  But I didn’t edit my words then, and those are the ones that fell from my fingertips.  She is.  She still is.

Tucker is slowly building her in the imagination of his brother, her brother.  She will reside for eternity in them, their eyes, their smiles, their hearts.  The man who forged the spoon and the one who hewn the beam are not really gone.  Life obeys the laws of conservation, nothing is ever completely lost.  She will exist forever as a story scribbled somewhere on the soul of the world.  She will.

everyday

From his bedroom at five in the morning, Tolliver, who'd been stirring for a few minutes, called out clear as the morning would dawn: I just need my milk. Except it sounded more like IJUSTNEEDMYMILK.
Waking to welcome a new day is cause enough to feel grateful, but I forgot.  I forget.

We received a phone call that required a quick change of plans.  Running already an hour behind, I lost Tucker, and the undergarments I had just pulled out of my drawer.  Andy found him at the top of the stairs, slingshotting them to the bottom.  I forget.

Having talked to Tuck about what we intended to do for the day, we described Plan B and tried to keep the promise of playground time on the agenda.  We took care of business, all four of us repeatedly in and out of the car, dropping off and picking up.  Tuck pointed out wet leaves on the pavement and exclaimed Look at all the beautiful colors, bright green and yellow and brown... and red, my favorite!  It was as if the trees leaned in to listen to him.  Hearing music, Tollie two stepped through one lobby, where, to his shy delight, an uninhibited older gentleman joined in.  All day long really, despite our rush, the earth came alive around them.  Shoes danced and signs waved, trees listened and cars smiled.

By early evening we made it to the playground.  Both boys shed energy climbing and sliding and chasing and jumping.  Afterward they shoveled chips and salsa and rice and beans into their mouths at record speed, appetites for food as insatiable as for fun.

Tuck has this habit of saying "every day" like it's one word, fast and with a little boy lilt, usually following a compliment.  I'll say Tuck, that's a great idea and he'll respond, Yeah, I have those everyday.

At bedtime Tucker whispered, soft as night fell, It's a miracle.  I asked him to repeat his words, and he went on, Know what Mom, know why today was a miracle?  Because we got to go to the playground and have dinner at the Cowboy.  And suddenly, brimming with gratitude for his simple know whys, I could think of a million more.

When life does not settle around me agreeably, when the potted flowers look defeated and dirt gets tracked in the back door, when the fuel arrow points to empty and all I want to do is sleep, the boys remind me.  I'll forget to feel it everyday, but tonight I'm going to bed grateful.  And tomorrow, when the world opens its front door and invites me in again, I will smile and say thanks.

"Gourd"geous Guys

apple doof and other anecdotes

Fall brings to our house special indulgences like apple cider, and before the sun rises Tollie asks for a glass of juice.  Apple doof? Apple doof please!

It’s not yet 7:00 am and Tuck wonders aloud Mom, sometime can I get a pet roadrunner?
As soon as he's made one request, he's articulating the next: I need an enormous pot.  You know, a big one.  Enormous is a cinnamon.  Aunt Christen told me that.

The boys bathe together and Tollie cries eye bubble, eye bubble, soapy fists pressed firmly against stinging eyes.  They've emptied an entire can of shaving cream, killing time before nap by drawing on the walls and on their bodies.  I ask Tuck to be careful not to get it near his brother’s eyes.  It’s okay, when Grandpa gets it on his face he just erasers it off.  I think he meant razor.

Tollie sleeps and Tucker collects straws and batteries, wooden blocks and modeling clay, remotes and foam balls.  He's building a Rube Goldberg machine or an Angry Bird course or a computer that tells you what kind of tree a leaf came from, and although these projects are the sort of work he prefers to do independently, he finds me in the kitchen.  Can I borrow you for a minute?  I need one more piece of help.

I dry my hands and hope to heaven that they'll ask me to dole out apple doof and provide pieces of help for years to come.

I totally agree with her.

Anna Quindlen says something about being quite content with children who grow up to think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves.

moments, and maybes

For four and a half years, Tucker has kept me busy and kept me on my toes and kept me company.  What used to be a small pink bundle has become long legs and strong opinions.  He tells stories and sings songs and shows gratitude.  He spends most days Dickens novel dirty, flashing a smile that his grandma says consumes his entire face.  He has risen to the occasion when things have been scary and confusing and just plain not fun.  Full of innocent wisdom, he points humor at sadness, encourages us to experience life as a lyric rather than a list.

We saw friends in a wagon across the street today and he said, Know what?  Know why they got that wagon for walks?  Because they miss Celia too and they want to remember how she used to like wagon rides.  
I'm not even sure those neighbors know who Celia is, but he seems to believe the whole world misses her.  And maybe he's right.

There are moments I’d like to lift Tucker out of his grief, carry him above any pain, moments I'd like to make a path for him through trouble.  I remember the first time I felt that urge was at his birth, the moment our eyes met and I wished the world for him.  We wouldn't know for eight days whether he'd inherited the same faulty genes that sealed his sister's fate.  I tried to focus solely on his perfection during that time but was distracted by the desire to shove away hardships for his foreseeable future.  Maybe that's a universal maternal instinct.

The thing is, he has a foreseeable future.  He has jokes to tell and issues to navigate and machines to invent.  Part of being alive is feeling sad and afraid, lonely and vulnerable.  Life unspools the way life does if you're lucky enough to be living it - in cycles of lovely and painful and painful again, and I'm glad to be figuring it all out with him.  With both of them.

When I catch him being a little too rough with Tolliver, Tuck excuses flying fists with I'm just giving Tollie a nice massage.  While he was swinging in the hammock this evening he was encouraging Tollie to come closer, I'm your friend, buddy.  Come here, I'm your friend.  Tuck's plan appeared to enable him to kick but was quickly described as a chance to give Tollie high five with my foot.  Despite these examples, Tucker's love for his brother is just as ardent as it is for his sister.
Tonight at bedtime, as I pajama-ed the boys, Tuck was begging to sleep in Tolliver's bed.  He said Mom, thank you for getting us the best Tollie ever.  And it was a moment, you know?  A lovely one that made me appreciate even more his aliveness and my inability to move him through it on any path but his own.  One of those.