Today Tucker brought home a folder of all the work he did in September. He sits on the bed between Watt and I, disbursing the goods. "This is Mom. This is Mom. This is Mom," he says, laying in my lap picture after picture of a page-filling figure with sometimes a big toothy mouth sometimes big lashy eyes. "This is for Dad," he says handing Watt pages of construction paper glued with bits of other construction paper. "This is for me," he says of the the bits of paper with geometetric shapes traced on them, the metal insert work. "This is for me. This is for Dad." and "This is Mom. This is Mom. This is Mom."