becoming a big kid

All the cliches about time passing quickly are true.

Wonder

Tucker's never been one to resist bedtime. No monsters in the closet, no requests for one more sip of water.  In fact, I'm not sure he's ever even come downstairs for a curtain call, never asked to say anything to us after we've tucked him in.
And it's not that there's any struggle with the shower-toothbrush-pajama routine, but lately there've been some subtle stall tactics. It seems he'd like to be up with the adults, to engage in sparkling conversation after dark. I mean, it's no secret that Tuck has always lived for the question portion of everything.

One evening he picked up Aunt Liddy's enormous old dictionary and began to read it, and to ask about certain words. Another night, interested in a gift of Za'atar, he asked us to help him make a list of spices, which led to actually opening jars from the cabinet to smell differences and discuss uses. Recently he wondered aloud about why the Greek symbol "pi" was chosen to represent the number, which led to RoRo's participation in Googling to learn about the root of the word periphery. He asks Andy about his day at work, about specific patient injuries and about random specialties and about why anyone would ever inject a shot with a fast raised arm in the same dramatic way it's done on television.
I used to record "I wonder" questions in my classroom, not just to gather the wildly off-topic ones but also to view them holistically in order to develop lessons and projects that might harness student curiosity. It's hard not to field Tucker's questions one-by-one, as they come up, but unless they're relevant to bedtime, I'm wondering if we ought to make a recording routine here at home, too. Wonder may be the beginning of wisdom, but sleep is important too.

under construction

We're hoping the new house will be a place where their spirits are free and their secrets are safe.

Photo credit to Kristy G.

walk with us

We watched the sun set last week in Florida, hot pink and bright orange, here and gone. Just like our girl.

We laced up shoes this morning, reframing our own impossibly knotted situations -trifling and entirely first world- in an effort to untangle a bigger problem.

We should be stepping gingerly into each next hard part of parenting, practicing all the little letting gos: sleepovers and school dances that lead to a driver's license and college applications, a predictable procession of small goodbyes. And then larger ones, like her wedding day, her father standing up front, offering her to the future she will never have.

With her diagnosis came the kind of anger that had nowhere to go.
We are grateful for opportunities to channel hard feelings into a current of hope, grateful for an event that reminds us she was once a part of this world.
Our loss is not erased by the joy her three healthy brothers bring, nor eliminated through super generous community support, but it is diluted by the combination of these things.
It is through this kind of exercise, gathering to move in the direction of a cure, that we can beat back despair and permit absence to underscore a beautiful presence.
Her spirit is somehow still doing important work. Her legacy lies, in part, in saving lives in the future.
Until a treatment proves truly effective, we will be tethered to activities that bring awareness and hope. And ever grateful that so many of you walk that way with us.

And speaking of important work, this gal ^^^ is changing the world.
There may be nothing better to do for a bereaved parent than to open wide your heart and walk with us.
We're so grateful Laura continues to lead the way.

Vitamin Sea

We flew to Florida last week. A few days at Siesta Key, one of which overlapped with family, proved good medicine all around. We celebrated a birthday, and the beauty of things that endure: fresh air, sunshine, family and love.

^ there's an alligator behind us

They want candy.

Tolliver shopped for his Army Ranger costume with Aunt Kate more than a month ago.  He's worn it approximately ninety five times before today.
Hank loves to hop and to say ribbit, but refused to put on his frog hat for even one photo this evening.
And Tucker drafted several designs for an oversized, working fidget spinner - folks couldn't keep their hands off it.

chapter one

Hank continues to reverse into an empty lap the way all of our children have done, bottom first and book in hand.
There are six of us here who can read with him, and he knows that any of us will stop what we're doing to engage his request.

He is very happy on his own too, imitating a pretentious stage reader. He comes upon books left on the floor and settles down cross legged to examine them, from Greek mythology to Good Night Moon. He grabs the edges of pages and flips at random for several seconds, never looking up, all the while running a loud low-pitched tone, like an aged generator.

Sometimes if we're feeling really ragged, which let's face it, is lots of the time, I default to books. I pull Hank close to me and we read, like I did when his siblings were overstimulated toddlers and exhausted preschoolers, like I’ve been doing their whole lives.
Sometimes I imagine the boys grown up and employed, calling me from work, overwhelmed and aggravated, and I wonder if I'll remember to pull out something like Little Blue Truck or Harry Potter and begin reading.