Toward Three

Fall bends inevitably toward winter and little boys grow into big boys.  If we’re lucky.  Tucker leans away from two and stretches toward three.  Inchstones add up to milestones, and we're not even aware that it's happening.  It's amazing, really, that so much endless effort, so much surprise, can fit into the interval between car tuneups, can happen in the span of one season.
We quietly thrill to his early morning voice, dazzled by the way he wakes with a smile as wide as the new day.  Discharging words in a cannonade, he thanks us for rescuing him from too-high spots, describes things as very interesting, says I gotfor (forgot) my pants or I broked my beard.  The up and down cadence, the music of his stories about school or swimming, the zoo or the playground, told in his little boy register, sounds like the sweetest of instruments.  Occasionally a sweep of panic steals his breath, and he resorts to the default action of kids everywhere, when confronted with a situation beyond his scope of experience -- Mama!? Daddy!?
But he is two going on three.  He performs poorly on tests of family harmony and cooperation on too little sleep (though don't we all?).  Too often soon can't come quick enough, and he treats a delay like a human right’s violation.  Similarly, he treats lost toys like a sign of the coming apocalypse, bedtime like an affront to his human dignity, certain requests as attacks on his intelligence.

The seasons shift, my boy grows, and my heart brims with a complicated mess of emotions.  Much like I expect Tucker to continue to do, gratitude rises to the top.
JEB