Tonight I spied a flatbed truck idling in our cul-de-sac. An odd occurrence but one that gave me a splendid idea.
I grabbed Henry, my “tuck”-loving boy, and walked out to our driveway. We stood in the twilight, illuminated by the street lamp and serenaded by the diesel chug of our visitor. Henry was mesmerized.
I whispered, “Look Henry, a truck.”
He whispered, “Tuck”.
We sat in our sloped driveway, him in my lap, and the truck driver lowered a fork lift from the back. He picked up loads of sod and drove them away, delivering them to their destination.
The sweet sweet words tumbled out of my Henry's mouth, each time the fork lift departed, “Mo tuck? Mo tuck?”
Henry sat still. Henry is never still.
Each time the fork lift returned, Henry peacefully murmured, “tuck”. All was right in his world.
The sod delivery was complete. The truck driver replaced the fork lift and got back into his truck. He waved to us and we waved goodbye in return.
Henry whispered, “Mo tuck.”
I quietly (and surprisingly sadly) explained that the truck had to leave.
The truck departed, singing farwell with its diesel chug.
It was my first true “little boy” moment with Henry. I never imagined that watching a truck would be so riveting, contemplative. But I reveled in Henry's pure joy.
Mo tuck indeed.