when listening feels kind of exhausting

I stepped outside this morning, having sent the boys ahead while I strapped on my own shoes, and caught Tucker, head raised to the sky, yelling Hello through a cardboard mailing tube.  He quickly explained he was just trying to discern whether the folks at Heaven's house were having a good day.

Tuck is verbal and imaginative, describing what he sees and narrating what is happening and wondering about how things work.  And hardly ever using a very quiet voice.

It takes us about ten minutes to get to church, and last Sunday Tuck filled the entire ride with words.  He told us all about the super fast speed car he'll drive when he grows up, about which color helmet each of his five children will wear when they ride with him, about the number four-and-a-half that will be on the roof and the thunderbolts that will stick on the doors, about the engine where the trunk usually goes and the parachute that will be attached.  He did not mention how fast the car would travel, but I'm certain the speed of his story was faster.

It seems like every thought that scrambles through his head sneaks out Tuck's mouth.  What does tropic mean? I want to have a pet dolphin. I can use these pliers to shoot my slingshot. May I have some square cereal in a bowl and also some fresh cold strawberries? How could we catch a kangaroo? Maybe we could build a fence real quick, a circle right around it before it hops out, maybe if we did it like that? Let’s see if I got any longer today.  I know a lot of silly ways to move. You can watch me, if you mind. 

Despite some linguistic precocity, Tuck always says that, if you mind, when he means if you don't.  
And even when we're tired, we don't.