just today

I woke up to footfalls in the hall, a cold child, wet sheets.  I loaded the washing machine, heated the coffee, poured the milk.
Before I had time to sit and think about how we could spend the day, the other one stumbled down the stairs, hair askew, ready to snuggle.

Where do your sneezes go when they disappear?  Like I needed to sneeze and then I think it got stuck in my teeth?

I do another round of coffee and milk before we dive into cereal and grapes and bagels with cream and berries with yogurt and bacon.  Bottomless pits.  I move laundry through and reconnect Playmobil parts and read books.  We still don't have a plan.  We're all still wearing pajamas.

Mama, do you want to see where I keep all the aliens I capture?  They're right here under my seat on the crane.

Yes honey, I can't wait to see where you store all the aliens.

I peel carrots, boil eggs, roast cauliflower, get caught up in the kitchen.  I think about calling the preschool, about ordering a battery tender, about getting library books returned.

Mom, would you check out this new aircraft I built.  It has a propeller that spins.

Oh buddy, I love this creation.  And I love you.

I pack overnight bags, scrub a spot on the rug, bribe them to trim nails.

Mom, you know what the good news would be if I cut my nose with those clippers?  I could paint with it!  Instead of using chalk, the blood could be my red color!

Days alone with the boys are kind of difficult to describe.  They can feel utterly exhausting and almost perfect all at once, with some very prosaic hours in between those two extremes.  Fixing crocs that are on the wrong feet, slicing apples, changing wardrobes, recapping markers, wiping chins.

I'm not sure I know that purple car with the orange fire, but I will keep my sharp eyes out for it.  Can I help you find a different toy car to play with now?

They're hungry again.  I scramble eggs and rinse blueberries and cut cucumber.
I make a shopping list, clip coupons, look ahead at the calendar.  I ask them if they've considered what activities they might like to participate in this fall.

I have fine fighting skills.  Like punching and grabbing and scratching and kicking and poking.  So I don't need karate like Tucker takes.

They are playing mama and baby, pet owner and cat, aliens and astronauts.  I am marveling at the luckiness of a little boredom.  We spend the rest of the day adding numbers, tying shoelaces, painting frogs, sounding out big words, singing songs.  We spend the rest of the day cooking and eating.  Chicken drumsticks and carrots and cheese.  And ice cream.

Of course there are tears and tough parts.  There always are.  There always will be.

I'm sorry your feelings feel hurt when your brother calls you little.  You are a big boy.  You will always be his little brother, just like Daddy will always be Uncle Adam's little brother.

Raising kids is a good many things.  It is expensive and exhausting.  It is also not certain things.  It is not glamorous or routinely exciting.  But it sure does feel like a privilege to fumble along and figure it out with these boys.

Insta round up

chicken chores #stratfordecologicalcenter

my trio of brown eyed boys

Tolliver via @mkstahl

music on the lawn, books in the street

pretty much a teenager 

salt and vinegar work together to shine a penny just like brothers can work together to do big things

walking for Uncle JD #abta

JD's Braniacs via @mollyholstein  

 

that one day June called and wanted to play

sidekicks and thumbs up for s'mores

at the strawberry pick park

trying to give up naps is not going well for #littlered

the original #betzboys

playing mama bird

red hair reporting for duty #cosibigmachines

lunch at Lindey's, year thirteen

red, white and block party

red, white and blueberries

#lovewins

book worm

because a soul can only endure so much rain

bison at Battelle Darby

it rained twice in June - once for twenty days and once for nine

when it was not raining, we were at the pool

backyard bluegill fishing via @bflymommy

wack-a-doodle-DONE at Magic Mountain

"boys reading books" water color by RoRo

sister cousins via @mollyholstein

dreamboat, in Aunt Linda's flippers

cousins make the best friends - T2&T3 via @mollyholstein

backyard picnic at Aunt Molly's

Saturday at Scioto Mile

from Why to What If to How

I’m appallingly unprepared for what comes at me.
He tilts his head, looks at me like I'm a spotlight operator ready to spin toward the answer, ready to highlight the information he's hoping for.
Where is Mount Everest? Why do churches have steeples? How do carousels work? 
I don’t know exactly what stars are made of or why geckos don't have eyelids or who invented video games, but I do know that asking questions is a central part of what it means to be a child.  Of what it means to be him.

I wonder what Mrs. Teach’s name was when she was a little girl? 
What do you call a homeless snail?  Oh, a slug, maybe.
Sometimes, if I wait long enough, he arrives at his own conclusions.

Which animal is the quietest one on the planet?
How can scientists know what the quietest dinosaur was if there were no scientists alive back then?
Sometimes, if I wait too long, he says Okay, let's ask Siri.

He asks questions like it's his job, like it's as normal and second-nature as his next breath.  He wants to explore and discover and innovate.  I don’t think labeling him makes me a hypocrite, I think it makes me human.  Incessant streams of why and what if and how make it seem fair to say he's very curious.  But he is smart and handsome and kind too, a swirly mix of all the best things, like a constellation, like a carousel.

His curiosity may be mercurial, may rise and fall with age.  He may learn from the world that recognition is most often received for knowing the right answer, that rewards are given for response more than query, that there are no incentives for wonder.  But he will hear from me, time and time again, that raising his hand to ask is one of the bravest, best things he'll ever do.  That somebody else may be wondering the very same thing, too.

We left berries on some nearby porches, too, just in case.

After blueberry pancakes out back, we chase them, all four of us running in circles.  Barefoot, they're on fast, sturdy limbs and I find myself wishing to catch them and hold on, a sense of urgency before their legs become longer and lankier, before their bodies don't fit on my lap.  They squeal.  I can still smell syrup in their hair.

Do boys grow faster in the summer, I wonder.  I sit and flip through a catalog, thinking maybe it's the loamy, fertilized soil their toes sank into this spring.  I stand in search of weeds, spot one, bend over to pull.  Occasionally the boys stop what they're doing, step out of their imaginary worlds.  I look up and notice at some point they've also stepped out of their shorts.  Someone wraps his arms around my legs.  Leg hugs are my favorite.

Although we visited the blueberry farm before brunch, there are days we do not ever depart from home, or even from our pajamas.  Just being in the backyard is an activity.  Andy grills meat to fill his breakfast bucket for the week, the boys build "cabins" and paint mazes and catch insects.  Something hits their collective funny bone and they sound like a pack of wild hyenas.  They tell me, though, that they are pirates, and I see their shirts attached to sticks, like flags.

Someday, I assume, they will stop shedding their attire, will stop streaking through the yard, from kiddie pool to hammock to bounce house to soccer ball to scooter.  Will stop screeching.
For now, it's fine.  With half-hearted apologies to our neighbors.
Love should be loud.  And first grade will come fast enough, forcing them back into clothes.

Red, White and real cute