Jake comes up beside me, laden with assorted scraps of dowling and blocks of wood. "Do I look like I've just come up from the basement?" he asks. Yes he does. He explains to me the intricacies of all his weapons. His best gun involves a built in walkie talkie so he can take orders while firing. He offered me one. I said, "No thank you. I don't want any weapons." He said, "Ok you can fight with your hands."
Earlier Tucker got a hold of Watt's wooden mallet and struck a fearsome pose. Makes me wonder about reincarnation, or ancestor memory or something, how easy my babies strike warrior poses. Tucker, baby Tucker, holds the mallet balanced, one hand at the base of the handle, the other just below the head, emblazoned with the words, "RED HEAD". Tucker stands with his feet wide, knees slightly bent. He lifts his upper lip, scrunching up his nose, and growls. When my baby, my copper-haired viking baby, raises the mallet to swing, I fear for us all.