M is sweet, so sweet, and on the other hand, fouls out of her basketball game. perfection. her competitive side is all mumford. she is statuesque and silly and the perfect height for hugs. she gets lost in hogwarts. she is hard on herself. she checks in on L when he cries. she and A battle over cards and video games, but then lose their breath laughing at each other. she is a delight. she is a texting machine. she is the first born.
A is a sponge for love and video games. anytime there’s a hug to be given or a glowing TV or tablet or phone screen, he’s a moth to that flame. he trains with nun-chucks. he tickles my sides with dagger-like fingers. lunch is his favorite subject. he hates writing, but willing spent 90 minutes with me going over his paper, adding in details, standing his ground when he thought the boy in his story would say goodbye before hanging up the phone despite me saying the goodbye was implied. he teaches me tae kwan do and five crowns and facts about the space needle. he is the middle child.
L is up for anything at any time: a card game, a starbucks run, a chihuly exhibit, four square, pass, catch, but he hovers near his dad when we go to the top of the space needle. he’s goofy and serious and daring and fast. his trash talking during our game of war is legendary. he’ll deliver handfuls of m&ms to you because even though it isn’t his turn for a treat, he wants to be involved. he is the youngest.
these kids are turning out spectacularly thanks to gargantuan efforts from their parents to be good parents, to have a solid marriage, and to better themselves as individuals. they are the foundation for these kids to stand on and they’re doing it right.
well, except for the part where they live on the opposite coast.
Abigail Mumford 