red and yellow, black and white

I know I'm not the only one who feels somewhat unsettled, who feels like things are especially heavy in the world right now, the politics and prejudices, the police shootings and body shamings.
We are blessedly fine, but there are so many precious others who are not.

I try to do my job here, hope that it will make a difference, wonder if it's enough.
I am fluent in all the root words of my profession, regret and fear, patience, frustration and hope.
The one I lay wide awake with at night, though, is worry.  I worry about one more loss, and about why we have not hit our limit.  I worry about what lies ahead.  I awfulize the future and let the what ifs eat my brain.

It is not the grim and thankless labor, not the loathsome, dreary tasks of parenthood that wear me out.  It is the worry.

I want to be able to protect my children from all manner of danger.
There are playground accidents and crib deaths and tree climbing mishaps to avoid, car seat malfunctions and airplane crashes and drowning risks, there are sticks and stones and guns and bombs and words that hurt.
I'm afraid anyone alive is either lucky or tough, or both.

I want my children to help promote change.
I know about the magnitude of all the small moments, about how what I do today might matter in twenty years.  I want to be an okay mom, to provide an adequate upbringing.  I know I don't need to save the universe, but I do want to be part of the hope.
I want the boys to know there is more than one way to change the world.

And I want them to know they are loved.

a reminder that all the wild things do not live at my house

We were invited to join a zookeeper and some animals behind-the-scenes last week.  On the drive there, Tolliver talked about hoping to hold a baby dolphin.  Or a sting ray.  Or a Pokemon.

Those hopes were dashed, but it should be clear from the pictures that he was far from disappointed.

animals in order of appearance: dingo, armadillo, palm civet, kangaroo, penguin, cheetah, bear cat, anteater

*photos by Juliet Carey

sometimes actual cartoon hearts shoot out of my eyeballs

cropping life into a series of square photographs

This collection covers almost two months' time.  

And I feel compelled to note:  These snippets do not lie, but they're never the whole truth either...

1.  dominating the dance floor in Kentucky
2.  Corvette Museum
3.  a bunch of fine men
4.  I am basically a professional boy bather
5.  a solid rendition of A Song About Cats
6.  power tools: the parenting intersection of pride and terror

7.  poolside
8.  summer in full swing, at North Bank Park
9.  slow mornings, sweet breakfasts
10. last day of first grade
11.  strawberry picking with friends
12.  Charles times two

13.  eight years ago, at Inniswoods  #awarenessweekend
14.  celebrating 90 with Grandpa Jim
15.  the happiest
16.  tennis lessons
17.  tastes like summer
18. peonies on the counter  #kitchenchurch

19.  darling boy
20.  love is love
21.  Battelle Darby hike
22.  at three months
23.  all the Ohio weather awards
24.  celebrating baby John  #gillsgirls

25.  fourteen years
26.  anniversary pregame
27.  fishing at Poppy's  #happylachian
28.  almost heaven
29.  hey girl
30.  cherry picked

31.  never met a creek they could stay out of  #battelledarby
32.  our little sum thucker, at four months
33.  saturdayzzzzz
34.  downtown adventures
35.  backyard books
36.  more fishing, Chadwick Arboretum

fort

Using all the pillows in the house used to be a point of contention.
Now I realize it's way more fun to participate than to nag.

rooster

So many nights this spring I'd feed the baby around 3am and get him back to sleep and get myself back to sleep, only to roll over just a few minutes later as Tolliver tip-toed into our room.
On those mornings, for a split second, I might have wished that he would not wake up, wished that I could just sleep a little longer.
And then I allowed myself to imagine the alternative: What if he did not wake up?

For four years he's been like a wild horse, with a wake up routine that can not be broken.  By 6am,  without fail, the party has started.  And the party is Tolliver simultaneously slingshotting Angry Bird balls across the basement and telling some elaborate tale about dragons or minions or astronauts.  Listening to him, while cartoons carry along in the background, I feel like I could plant a yawn farm.
(Aside: His storytelling actually has the strange, mystical ability to make coffee taste even better than it already does at sunrise.  He may be the most imaginative child I know.)

I realize that in the finger snap of a few years Tolliver will be a teenager, still in bed at noon.
And right now, when my little early riser feels far from the child I imagined parenting, I know it’s because I was not inspired enough to envision him.

lately they've been leaning toward more of the latter

Some days brotherhood is fused through fury.
Other days cooperation and grace form their companionship.