absorbing it all

We walked to the library, noting the passing of seasons in a new place. We don't really know what will bloom here or how long it will stay. This spring and summer have felt like a slow moving play that we won tickets to attend but have not heard much about.

The boys had root beer floats out front while we looked at the new books. Hank took a spill down the concrete steps, skinning his knees and scuffing his face, screaming.
Tucker, three books in and barely lifting his eyes from the page, reached over to pat him, his face simultaneously whispered something like Well, this is kind of annoying - twinned impulses to which I can absolutely relate.
Tolliver said I wish that happened to me so I could be the one who hurt, the universal parental wish, to absorb the hurt on behalf of them.

Speaking of independence

Hank is funny and feisty and daring and the very definition of IDGAF.
He is all emotion and not much reason.
Sometimes I'm afraid he is destined to end up either in the ER or in an anger management program?

He has heavy tastes and strong opinions.  He is enthusiastic about what he likes.  Mainly other people's food.  He is equally if not more enthusiastic about what he does not like.  Mainly the noise the printer makes, and the scary reclining chair at his grandparents' house.  And also : WAITING.  He hates to wait.

He gets frustrated when he isn't given something he wants the moment he wants it.
He wants to hold the spoon, to hold the toothbrush, to hold the sunglasses and the cell phone and the LIPSTICK.  To hold the fragile-est thing he can find.
He sees Tolliver's water bottle as a possession which they share; he likes to carry it under the crook of his arm, fingering the spout so that water drips and leaves a trail in his wake.
He wants to be allowed to climb on the table and pinch Cheerios out of Tucker's bowl, milk running down his forearm.  Or to climb on the table and touch the chandelier.
He pulls cutting boards out of kitchen cupboards, empties bottles of shampoo in the tub, pours animal cracker across the floor.

At the pool, he is ALL IN.  Like, other people stop to watch him. He stands right in the middle of the fountains, crawls out in water until it's too deep and then keeps going, jumps off the side all by himself.
Turns out he is ALL IN at the creek, too.

There are a number of tasks he cannot quite handle, yet our participation is not usually very welcome.
He wants to be independent, and yet he seems to want one of us around ALL. THE. TIME.

Late at night, when I have a moment to regain my personal space, I am reminded that we've survived these toddlerhood declarations before.

my favorite firecrackers

forever is composed of nows

We've been married for fifteen years.
He reminds me, often, that I am not the worst things I tell myself about myself.
Together, I know that we are a lot more than the hardest decisions we've ever made.

Eight years ago we sat in a patient conference room while concrete set slowly around our ankles.
I twirled my wedding ring as if it might unscrew my finger. He sat next to me, stone faced, like a fifth head on Mt. Rushmore, speaking in a serrated voice, as if the conversation could end with any sentence. His eyebrows left the spot where eyebrows should go and shifted toward each other; with steel in his eyes he asked only one or two questions. The hands on the clock measured the same second over and over while the neurologist with a slinky for a backbone and the soul of a rented opossum tried to respond. But the only one that mattered had already been answered.

Celia's absence underlines our family's fortune. We’ve learned what it’s like to leverage hope against fear, to have more babies. Together our desire to raise children was just a little stronger than our doubt. Thank god.

He is a much better father than I expected him to be. And I expected him to be a really good one.
He is the kind of father who cares less about grades on a report card and more about teaching the boys how to unload the dishwasher. He worries less about trophies on the mantel and more about kindness on the playground.

Recently his mom mailed the boys pictures of little Andy doing things that they enjoy doing at about the same age - fishing and playing baseball.
I really love these photographs. They remind me that he existed in the world before he came into mine.

Earlier this week we spent the better part of a day in the new yard, moving flagstone and foundation rocks, digging holes and cementing posts for the boys' tree house.
I am strong and capable, but I can't say that I've stacked rocks on pallets before. Andy grinned at my effort and then shifted the expertise outside of our dyad: “They say the best way to create a stable pile is to stagger the seams” he instructed, rather than, “This is how I’ve been doing it successfully for twenty five years.” 

He does the same thing with the boys, building their confidence with positive praise and gentle guidance. He talks to them about chemical changes and congressional lines, listens to terrible jokes and mind-numbing tales, teaches them how to make good decisions even when it's hard to feel proud of some of our own. He is a calm co-pilot and forever their parachute.

We've been married for fifteen years. Most of my words have about a two second half life in his head.
Move the clothes to the dryer if you have a minute. 
Do you mind changing the lightbulb in the hall? 
Help me remember to send snacks to school tomorrow! 
But those things aren’t really important anyway. Maybe I should put the important ones on the mirror where he brushes his teeth, maybe I should voice record them on his phone, say them out loud more often, post them here.
I love you. 
You are the boys' favorite person on earth. 
Thank you for doing so much.
Till death do us part.

just add water

at the end of most days

we all smell like dirt.

rest periods

On the way to the pool this morning Tolliver asked us how many whistles we'd stay for, and I remembered exactly what it felt like to measure summer days by the rest period whistle.