I like it #4!

Like many parents of multiple kiddos, some days I just don't feel there is enough of me to go around. I have teenagers who want to talk about football practice or school or college visits while my 5 year old needs help finding the words "of" and "the" on soup cans. On the worst days, I worry that I am shortchanging one or all of them. I fear they will look back and remember having to earn my attention. So, I tiptoe into a dangerous world. I imagine life with one kid and one kid only. Dinners with only 3 at the table; no spills; no lefties bumping elbows with the person in the next seat. Laundry would happen only once a week. The grocery bill would be practically non-existent. Finally, there would be no competition. No shouting to be heard over another brother. No laps or couches to push another from. No yelling "Shotgun" as they race to the car. No one competing to read the "ABC" book while another does math problems at the table. No pleas from me to "let your brother finish and then I'll help."

Last week Tate competed in his first basketball game of the season. And because we are a big family, he had a big cheering section rooting for him in the stands. Every basket Tate scored, every steal he made, every rebound he grabbed was followed by claps and stomps and hoorays from me and Dad. But the biggest mouth on that bench was Tucker. Over and over, for four quarters, he clapped and whistled and repeated, "I like it #4!" Tate heard him every time and managed to glance our way when he did something special. Very quickly, my fears of anyone being shortchanged because of too many siblings was extinguished by another "I like it 4!"

Relief.

Reassurance.

With just four words from Tucker.

I stepped quickly out of that dangerous one-child world and back into mine. I like it here. I like the noise, the chaos, the mountains of sweatpants and jerseys. I like the chatter, the crowded table, and their needs that sometimes only I can meet; but I know now that when I can't meet those needs and there isn't enough of me to go around, they have each other:

Shouting from the stands; bumping elbows at the table; shooting hoops in the driveway; eating cereal late at night -- all the big stuff.

Joy

“Yet love revives as we spin homewards. Joy and sadness come by turns, I know now. But life goes on and on we go, spinning along in a violet light.” Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

Life does go on, and on we go, celebrating milestones and mourning the passing of childhoods that just don’t last long enough. Joy and sadness have come at me like a prizefighter this week, accompanying the rollercoaster of a ride that is senior year, all smashed into one final week of high school football.

Joy has come to me every morning in his texts, thanking me for what the touchdown club has gifted the seniors with that day: lunch, breakfast, goody bags, t-shirts. Sadness comes, too, with all that it represents: success, closure, a finale. Today, joy overwhelms me with a picture from last week's game and a shoutout in the local newspaper. Sadness sneaks up later with the invitation from the school in Ohio. Joy wraps me tightly when the little boys play touch football in the living room, Tucker refereeing as seriously as if he were wearing stripes. Sadness sucker punches me later when Truett asks if Tucker will come home to visit after he goes to college.

Tomorrow we travel away for our last matchup, the seniors' last night representing Indian football. Joy will undoubtedly consume me as I watch my number 7 take to the field, white towel hanging at his waist, ankles wrapped for protection, helmet tucked under his arm as he marches to the 50 yard line for his final role as Captain. Joy grabs me, shakes me, hoots and hollers with me at every touchdown, every complete pass, every run for positive yards, but today it screams at me, louder than ever: "Stop! Look at him! Look at what you've done! You did good." And I know we have.

Tomorrow night, I will shoo away the sadness. There will be no room for it as we celebrate the boy who changed me, taught me, stole me and holds me captive to this day. Tomorrow night, sadness will wait its turn. It will come, I know, probably as we make the drive back to Dahlonega, trailing a school bus full of boys who will step into the next phase of their lives when they step off the bus for the last time; but it won't come before I soak up the sights, the sounds, and the emotions of one last glorious Friday night.

My hope, my wish, my prayer is for him and his teammates to go out as winners, to do what they do best one last time, to enjoy their abilities, to make one last memory that will live forever, one more touchdown pass, one last race down the sidelines, one more snapshot of eleven boys spinning along in a violet light.

Brothers

These two look so much alike, and every day it seems, my 9 year old acts a little more like my 18 year old, too. The funny thing about that, for those who may remember, is Tucker didn't want Tate: "Tanner is the only brother I want," his 8 year old self protested when we broke the news of another Kirk joining our crew. It was a rough night that night, but I don't bring up that story much, because for all the tears Tucker shed that night, the relationship between these two managed to not only survive, but thrive these last 9 years.

We played baseball today, Tate and his 9U Indians, and as any good travel ball mom does, I watched from behind the plate when he pitched, strolled the 1st base side when he was there, and paced behind the dugout when he stepped into the batter's box. I've done it that way for years, from Tucker's first years as a 1st baseman to Tanner knocking down grounders at second. As I moved from spot to spot today, the only thing that differed from those first years was my cell phone. Normally, I would have ignored the ring during a game, but I knew it was Tucker calling, asking for score updates and how Tate was doing. When I told him Tate was pitching, his immediate reply was "send a video." And he hung up. Expecting the video. So I sent it. "Nice," he texted back. And that one word made my day more than it probably would have made Tate's.

Tate might not come right out and say these exact words, but he wants to be just like Tucker, whether it's football, baseball, or a good hair cut. During the high school games, whether Tucker is on the mound or in right field, Tate manages to pull himself away from the siblings playing wall ball to come over and ask me how Tucker is doing. As a 9 year old little boy, he can't commit himself totally to the game at hand, but he does care enough to check in and make sure that at home that night, he can offer up a "You pitched good tonight" to his big brother. Same for Tucker-- he couldn't quite pull himself out of bed this morning to make it to an early game, but he wasn't too tired to check in.

Tate knows his mom and dad are proud of him on days like today when he hit a home run and a triple and made some good plays in the field, but when he gets in the car and immediately asks to call Tucker, I think it means a little bit more to hear it from him.