believe

We walked past a dead rabbit in the alley on the way to pick up Tuck from school.  Tollie tried to convince me that the rabbit was just sleeping.  I wondered aloud whether the road was a good place for a nap.  He argued it was a fine place for a tired rabbit to rest.

When we tell him we need to run to get coffee, he swears the coffee store is closed.  And the haircut store is never open.  And his pediatrician is too busy to check him over.
On school days he tries to convince us that Miss Rosa is sleeping.  And that all his friends are sick.
He insists that he does not speak English, that I am not female.  That he is not a nice brother, is not a great sharer, is no good at reading.
He is confident that Santa cannot see him and that THERE ARE NO ELVES WATCHING.

He is sure that he is six years old.  He is convinced that big boys can light candles.  He knows that he has a sister.

Where is truth, I wonder?  Where is what's real when the world around us feels way truer than the invisible thing that purportedly holds it all together.  Can belief and disbelief coexist?

Sometimes I think Tollie thinks he can believe something so hard he becomes right.

Sometimes I wish I could do the same.

from the phone

1.  vintage OSU #ohiostatement
2.  arms full
3.  brisket nachos
4.  brisket breakfast
5.  brown bear, brown bear
6.  "bus" stop

7.  fire chief
8.  birthday morning
9.  Grandview Cookie Jar
10.  Garden of Constants

11.  surprise doughnut delivery #goodieshop
12.  cousin sleepover via ccoyle9777
13.  model trains at COSI
14.  Wyman Woods with William

15.  WildLights at the Columbus Zoo

16.  advent wreaths at BSPC
17.  wine at Spagio
18.  Buckeye Bounce
19.  kiwi crate catapult construction #precoffee
20.  little elf

lost

I remember a time, barely five years ago, when the idea of his smooth gums interrupted by pearly whites was an impossibility.  Even in my wildest imaginations I could not envision a better smile than his spectacular toothless one.
But then two little teeth, tiny cubes of sugar, poked through.

TEB, October 2009

Over the weekend, Tucker lost his first tooth.
It’s image altering, a single tooth gone, the same way it was when that very tooth broke through his gummy infant grin.
But man is he still cute.

The Tooth Fairy left two chocolate coins.  

Because anybody who knows Tucker knows that he'd want to share with his little brother.  

And he did.

as long as we remember

He wrote her name on one of the feathers of his “I’m thankful" turkey.
He talks about death in a way that feels more honest than any hushed voice or ritualized phrase.  His sister is gone, but she's still his and he is grateful.
I worry that someday she'll feel so distant she may as well be theoretical.  I worry, late at night, over all the wrong things.  He is not going to forget.

I know that he is, generally, a very emotionally healthy kid.  I rely on that fact, certain he has grown, immensely, through some of the worst experiences.  Some of that growth was probably a result of seeing us in an emotionally bad way, in a way that did not allow us to fully attend to him.  That’s part of growing up, maybe, but it’s too much for two or three or four.
I wish he could’ve been spared the whole experience.  But I'm grateful he had a sister too.

I often feel like I’m not explaining things right, probably because half the time I don’t understand them well myself.   How can I make clear why someone would weep because two ladies who love each other were allowed to get married, why someone would gawk because a black woman was elected to congress, why someone feels big moments of letting go and small everyday demise in the same sad ways.

I start and stop six times, stammering on about history and religion, racism and sexism, illness and death.
This time, something about his pace and his expression tells me he needs to see me managing, not dissolving. He turns his face toward my midsection, the way the sun folds itself into the shoulder of the landscape at dusk, tears dropping from his eyes as if their lives depend upon reaching the hardwood floor.

I'm grateful for your sister, too.  
I know it's not fair.  
I'll always wish that she were here with us.  The imagining and the wishing are how I keep her here, I guess.
Thank you for reminding me that I'm not the only one remembering.

around Thanksgiving

pancakes for breakfast: one chose cinnamon blueberry and the other picked chocolate chip

5am craft project: turkey disguised as robot, a school assignment

last minute finishing touch, adding a circuit and a light bulb

on their way to Thanksgiving dinner

Aunt Linda's whipped cream taste tester

story time with cousin Thatcher and Aunt Molly

Sound the alarm

party at the station,
Tolliver was fortunate to be surrounded by family
for his third birthday celebration!

Details:
group tour at the Central Ohio Fire Museum
cookies from the Grandview Cookie Jar
cake by RoRo
photo credit, minus last three, to CC

three years alive

Dear Tolliver,

Today you turn three.  You like elephants, ice cream, steak, basketball, blue, building blocks, riding bikes, reading books, cuddling, dump trucks, potty words and impressing your brother.

I may have written that your favorite color was dirt, but I think your new favorite color is no pants.

You have the, what I assume to be universal, small child trait of finding me when I am least able to give you my full attention, attempting to nestle yourself into my arms when I'm folding laundry or perform your newest salsa beat when I'm trying to piece together a coherent thought.  When I’m on the phone with the insurance company, or when the timer is beeping because dinner is done, you need me most. When I’d really just like a moment of privacy in the bathroom or when I want to finish the last three pages of a good book, your desires are urgent.

If I listen hard at night I can almost hear you growing.

I'm not sure anyone could pack more spunk into thirty six pounds.  Sometimes you have so much to say you do not have time to inhale, like the ocean or the wind, you roar unendingly, telling stories with the signature earnestness of a raconteur.
You call windmills fanwheels, the ones we saw out the window on the way to Iowa and the ones we saw at the model train exhibit at COSI last week.
You tell people you have hinges right here in my skeleton while you touch your knees.  They help me move my legs, you explain.
You smile and say “cheese” better than anyone has ever said it before.
You talk about conductors and insulators like you're ready to run a course on electrical engineering.
You yell out from your bedroom when it is way too early for you to say anything at all.
But you leaned over and hugged me this morning and said I love you Mommy, thank you for my new loader truck.  It is big and yellow and I can load it up and dump it out and load it up and dump it out.

You talk up a big storm, but you seem to know, already, that just because someone else is being heard doesn't mean your voice can't be heard too, even if you're saying different things.
You grasp my sleeve at sudden unfairness, at commonplace loveliness.  Nothing is a lost cause for you.
Although most of the time it's like you've taken a page straight from the book of Veruca Salt, you can be amazingly patient.  And you are so wise.

You are wise and you are wild and free, curious and tireless.  We tell you about Celia because your sister died while you were still in newborn diapers, yet she changed every day of our life together.  We want you to be cautious.  We are so glad you are in the world with us.  While you blew out candles, we breathed in air and bargained with God and the universe.  We want to keep you in the world with us.

Today you turn three, but when you woke up this morning I stared into your eyes as if it were the first time I'd seen you, studied you like art, your collarbone and coloring, your teeth and your toes.  When I think about your future, I wonder who will look at you like I do.  Who will pin your prize papers to their refrigerator, who will pull the blankets to your chin.  Who will show you love when your path takes you away from me, from home?

I love you, little Tollie.  I hope I never forget how good it feels to love someone so much.
Mama