architect

Hank is good at building castles, among other things.
Sometimes, when the blocks crash, he says Oh rattlesnakes! before beginning again.
He is, perhaps, the best smile constructor I know.

Walktober

I wonder if walking can be a devotion?
In the morning, in the evening, in the heat of the day, in the rain.
With a close friend, with my sister, with a stroller, alone and moving.
Walking feels like a way to look at prayer that lands more closely to my own experience of something sacred. A way to reinvent myself and solve world problems and plan dinner all at once.
I am more of myself moving than under most circumstances, some odd combination of the future and the past, reminiscent and hopeful. Tired and reenergized.
It is more private than performative, offering both communion with the world around me and time alone inside my head.
It is possible, on occasion, to walk away trouble, the ones real and imaginary.
Were religion founded on this - purely walking - I may convert.

and the heat goes on

after school

After school the boys grab popsicles from the garage freezer and wander into the woods.
I follow a few minutes behind, flipping through the days' mail.
It's quiet under the canopy, everyone lost in their own wondering, the boys lined up on a log, taking it all in. I make a mental list of things that bring them - and me - smiles, surprised at how little it takes. Surprised at how, when I try to pick out anything by itself, I find it hitched to everything else.
Sidewalk pennies and ladybugs that land on outstretched fingers. Soup for dinner, no spoons but corn chips the preferred delivery mechanism. Clean sheets and redundant days, bedtimes books and stars above.

the presence of her absence

Tollie, in earnest: Which is closer, New Zealand or the moon?

Hank, in rapid fire: I want to see the speaking parts inside Siri. Which is softer, a bear or a raccoon? I've never touched a raccoon, so I don't know. I want to see how tall I am today, but first I need a snack.

Tucker, in response: Hank, you can't open Siri till she breaks. Tolliver, which do you think?

Tolliver: Well, you can't see New Zealand, so, the moon? 

Hank: What if Tolliver had a zipper for a mouth?

Tucker: Except you can't see Celia either...


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Sign up by 9/27 to save $5, or by 10/17 to ensure a shirt. Or, just order a shirt ;)

Dear boys

I don't know if you can tell but this is me just pretending to know.

the beginning of a string

Hank is very three. His personality is like a cross between classical music and cannon fire.
He began preschool recently, and has gone just a handful of times now. Whether by accident or coincidence, he'll be spending two afternoons a week in a classroom full of all boys. Maybe pray for his teachers.

Hank can add small sums and spell short words. He loves to sing and dance and dress up and paint. He does not nap much any more, and has decided not to suck his thumb very often. I look at him, standing at the beginning of a string of endings, and feel altogether proud and grateful and nostalgic and exhausted and optimistic.
I love following him, the way he roams around without an agenda, his mind exploding over rocks and chipmunks and caterpillar poop, over a hundred things I cannot see. I hope that he will always love to play, and to learn. I hope that his only hardships will continue to be small things, like settling for the wrong flavor popsicle or getting his shoes on the exact right feet.
I find myself, suddenly, home alone at times, shocked by the slack created when one person slips out of the rubberband that snugs us sometimes too tight together. I want him to stay small, I want him to grow old, I want him to be mine forever, I want to learn how to let him go.