Tucker is a strong boy.  He’s a little rock.

To look at him, you woudn’t guess it, necessarily, but to pick him up?
Or to wrestle with him?
Or to be a little girl in his class who accidentally bumps into him?
Oh, you know right away.  He’s solid.

There’s an implicit challenge with such a build: Tuck can take people down without even knowing it.  Honestly, they just bounce right off him, and he’s left standing there with a quizzical expression on his face, like, “Wait, what?  What just happened?”

He’s built like his daddy.  Rock solid; gentle giant.

It’s a practiced skill: gentle strength.

We’ve talked about this a lot recently.  Daddy was super-duper strong, with the biggest muscles I had ever seen.  But I never, ever saw him hurt anyone.  And he learned to be careful with his strength, because he knew he could be stronger than he meant to be sometimes.

It’s a practiced skill: gentle strength.

“Tuck, you are definitely the strongest boy in your class.”

“No, Nicholas is taller.”

“But that doesn’t mean he’s stronger, buddy.  You are the strongest, and you can hurt other people by accident, just by bumping into them or swinging your backpack.  If people are in your way, they’re going down, kiddo.  So that’s something we need to learn to be careful with.”

“Careful, how?”

“Buddy, you are the strongest, so let’s make sure you are also the kindest.”

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