On a boring old Tuesday.

Cycle of sleep.

At 28 months, he awakes early, then needs a little snooze to get his big little big body through the day. Sometimes he’s happier than others about this. I rest beside him, my arm around, his hand on my arm, surrounded by thirteen thousand stuffed animals; I look at those little fingers and wonder if they’ll ever be bigger than mine and know in my heart they will be, and it’s a hard and beautiful thing to know.

Babyface.

He falls to slumber and he jumps as my burly beard grazes his face as I slowly remove myself from the bed. Some day he’ll probably have a beard, or maybe have a beard. I think it’s cool that at two years old he doesn’t have one yet. I like his baby face. I leave him with a beardless green cyclops to snuggle with.

Later.

Three of them read side-by-side. Two with bare feet. A full diaper sets adjacent to them. My strong suspicion is that it previously adorned the bottom of the one in the middle, until its service was needed no longer. She reads a book with him, patiently pointing at different pictures and words. He follows along and simultaneously tries to stuff his hand down his pants.

Next to them.

An eight-year old works his way through my Charles and Mary Lamb’s adaptation of Shakespeare’s tales; their version was one of my early introductions to the Bard many years ago, when I stumbled across a copy in the stacks at the Tillamook County Library.

The stories we tell and the music we make.

She does laundry, assisted by our two-year old. His crocs rest alongside, along with a little array of books and a collection of wardrobe folded and refolded and unfolded.

Next to them.

An eight- and 11-year old play songs together on ukulele and guitar, respectively. The melodies they sing are occasionally broken up with the cacophony of quarreling between songs as they navigate the decision, every time, of which one to play next.

I love to hear them play.

Always.

I FaceTime with my brother Jonny and I don’t recall what we talked about. But every day to see him in some form is a good day. I miss him so very much.

Rituals.

We gather together shortly after 8pm to brush teeth. All five of us in our little bathroom. If Norman Rockwell were here I think he would laugh at us, and with us, and enjoy us, and perhaps Grant Wood of American Gothic notoriety.

Customer of the year.

Our daughter wears a shirt with an octopus. It is an illustration that was designed by the artist and businessperson behind The Salty Raven, a shop my mom frequents regularly, and she has gifted much of their merchandise to her many children and grandchildren. I like octopi. And I like my mum.

Again.

We FaceTime again with my brother and his wife after the kids are all in bed, and he follows her around, on camera, as she is looking for something under the bed, and riding on her back is their pet bunny. It is a humorous and adorable sight.