If we whittle away long enough, it is a story we come to at last…And the storyteller’s claim, I believe, is that life has meaning—that the things that happen to people happen not just by accident like leaves being blown off a tree by the wind but that there is order and purpose deep down behind them or inside them and that they are leading us not just anywhere but somewhere. The power of stories is that they are telling us that life adds up somehow, that life itself is like a story. –Frederick Buechner

The Kid wrote a story.

This term in school, his class is learning about king and queens, knights and castles. We (I) constructed a cardboard castle that I bought at the toy shop for him to take in and give a speech about, the highlight of which was that he named it Castle James. Duh. “Why are the kids in my class going to laugh when I tell them that, Mom?” he asked, with a glint in his eye, because he knew the answer: that they think he’s funny, and not in the way I’ve been terrified of. They aren’t laughing at him, they’re laughing with him. He’s not just writing stories and giving speeches–he’s making jokes.

Anyway, he wrote the story: “I went to the castle.” And it was so spontaneous, his handwriting–formerly such a struggle–so skilled, that the teacher called me into the room at pickup to show me. And she had sent him to the year two class, where the Assistant Principal was teaching, and TK read it to all of them. I MEAN COME ON.

His growth is so beautiful, and I know that because life is all things, his path will also be all things, but right now? So beautiful. I’ve been writing his story for so long, wondering if I’d always be the one at the keyboard, and now I can see these glimpses of him taking over, his self-awareness slowly seeping in like one of the Orphan Black clones, and one day he’ll gloriously push me out of the way completely and tell the whole damn thing himself. But for now: WHEEE!

But the real comedian in our family? That’s Little Brother, whose mischievous grin reveals a knowingness beyond his age. He knows what to say to earn the most laughs at the dinner table and everywhere else; his highest goal is to render TK breathless with giggles (“James laughs!” he turns to me and says, delighted); his timing is impeccable. Often he’ll deliver a joke–classic example: “I have a tasty belly”–then walks off, tossing a smug expression back at the room left laughing in his wake.

And his singing? Girl, don’t even. He’s learning lyrics left and right after hearing a song once, and whether it’s inspirational or Disney, nothing will melt your heart more than to hear him whispering “oooh, you love me best” from the backseat or belting “what can I say except, you’re WELCOME” from his bed.

And one more thing: the other day we were at the amusement park and I asked him what colour something was. Mofo replied, “Cyan,” like that’s an actual colour which it IS and when I looked it up because my kid knows more colours than I do, I found out he was right. So there’s that.

There’s a lot of things. There’s TK’s growth, which has been anything but a straight line, rises and tips and twisty turns showing me that hard may not be easy but it’s beautiful, this slow but sure uncovering of grace right where we are. And there’s LB’s growth, which unwraps itself before I even have a chance to tug at the bow, bursting out in self-satisfied glory while we all–TK especially–watch with glee.

It’s a thought I have often, while driving past Balmoral Beach or looking at my kids: How many people get this view?!

At that same amusement park, we ran into a boy from TK’s class, and I stopped to talk to his mom. Within a few seconds, he wanted to jump on a ride with TK, and his mom turned to me in disbelief. “He never rides that one. He never rides anything! He’s always been too scared.” Cut to him and TK and LB shoved into a tiny, slow-moving fire engine lolling around a circular track. I wanted to tell her the story of how he brings out the best in people and uncovers things you never knew were there, but it seemed like that story? Was already telling itself.

Later that night we were playing Monopoly, because my kid can (kinda) do that now and this is huge, and while LB expertly played a matching game next to us like it was no thang, TK cheated and moved forward one space further than the dice had decreed. He looked up at me because he knew what he had done, but he also knew what it meant: his favourite, a “chance” card. “I landed on the question mark!” he proclaimed, and I thought about all the times I’ve wanted to land on a straightforward period, how often I’ve wanted “easy” over “real.” How I’ve shunned mystery and how it’s showed up with its gifts anyway. How I’ve landed on the question mark too. And the view is beautiful.