Turner is in love with La La, whom he affectionately refers to as Laura only when she isn't around, sometimes even calling her Laura La La. There is nothing that anyone else can do for Mr. Turner except step out of the way to allow La La to take over. This is wonderful for Laura who is missing Turner terribly already. She is a woman of tears and shedding them she has been. He knows. He can sense the change coming and though he says "moving to Tucson" and we've tried to prepare him that Laura and Chiara and Zeus stay at their houses while we move on, I know we all haven't fully grasped what that will mean for us in the near future. So while I relish my time with my favorite boy in the world today, I was happy to turn him over to his most favoritest person in the world once he and I returned from a little walk today. Our short time together reminded me that I get to be the mommy again soon doing both the fun and not so fun things that come with that title.
We walked around the pool today and buried dried palm tree leaves, matching their shapes (think HUGE banana peel still in tact) with the shapes of other flowers and concrete walls. We found an appropriate place for safe keeping and buried the two leaves deep in the brush of the flowerbed. Then we checked out the snail that was dried on the wall, left over from last night's rushing rainstorm. We sang our adventure walk song several times. We ran circles after each other, both of us clad in our swimsuits and shoes, not worrying about what was jiggling where. We scavenged for birds and other wildlife to find nothing but disappointment.
After a quick shower, Turner popped his favorite treat: popcorn. He poured it into a bag, and we headed out to explore the Naples neighborhood here. Though I try to not be impressed by the houses and more impressed by people's willingness to put their extravagant materialism on display, I pushed Turner's stroller around the bay with my mouth gaping open trying to name the flowers to him while peeking over the bushes at the multi-million dollar vacation homes. It is unreal that this is someone's reality.
We walked all around the bay, throwing popcorn in at several spots to tempt the fish we could not see. We discussed the "big boats" and how even though Turner calls them Pa Pa's boat they are much different. At one point in our journey I unstrapped him and we sat on the dock together throwing popcorn into our mouths and the greenish water. He pointed out ripples in the water and strived to fill the open fish mouths he envisioned with popcorn kernels. I told him stories about my times sitting on the dock as a child in Dale Hollow Lake feeding the ducks.
Sitting there, with Turner cushioned by my lap, sweat pouring down our faces I wanted to cry. There are so many in the world who don't know the luxury of idle time. So many mothers who jump from task to task, child to child, job to job and don't get the extreme pleasure of hearing their two-year old describe to you where he sees something in the water that is make-believe. Each time he looked up from my lap, his nose only inches from mine, I was reminded what a wonderful space I have in the world beside him. How extremely fortunate I am to have earned an education and the freedom in life to choose where I go and when.
So as the rain opened up on us while we chatted over Ben and Jerry's ice cream, I was full of life and energy, completely happy to sprint in the rain to return my favorite person to his favorite person. And, as always, she was waiting with the open arms that are full of the kinds of treasures only Turner's Aunt La La can provide. How rich his life and memories and childhood and experiences will be and already are simply because she takes every single moment to reinforce how unique, special, smart, handsome, and grounded he is. I appreciate her compliments of me, but they aren't necessary. Every sweet kiss, hug, and "Wa Wa" Turner shares with her shows me the effect she is having on him. Even when she is not holding his hand, nestling his face, or coddling his self-esteem her work continues to shape him into the man we nonverbally agree that we hope he will become. I suppose that is the greatest gift to me, as his mother, that his favorite person parents the way I parent (or, more likely, I learned my best parenting moves from her) and that her visions for Turner are as boundless as mine. Turner couldn't have picked a more special number one.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
"Airplane not fall down"
We gathered our suitcases and drove to Louisville Thursday morning, arriving, surprisingly, with ample time to spare. On the trip there, Turner announces: "Going on airplane [with the emphasis on second syllable]. It go up in the air." He shakes his head in complete seriousness, "Airplane not fall down." Andy and I exchange a glance and both assure the other that neither one of us has said that to him. It is weird. We forge ahead.
Cheryl graciously takes us to the airport and runs length to length of the airport chasing Turner while Andy parks the car and I park our luggage at the check-in desk. For weeks we've heard about the airplane. I worried that the reality of the big hunk of steel, something which Turner wouldn't really even see as we were boarding, would not live up to his high expectations. Somewhere, in the many, many conversations we have shared with Turner about airplanes, we failed to mention that we must wait for the airplane to arrive at the airport. The terrible part of flying is the waiting at the airport. How could we forget that?
So we arrive at the airport. Turner sees many airplanes out the big glass windows lining each wall, and he becomes impatient to get on one. We have a little lunch. He is incessant. Our time arrives, we walk down the carpet to the last gate (of course) and discover that flying to Orlando in the summer holds an obvious displeasure we did not contemplate: Disney world travelers. Children so excited for Mickey and Minny and the goofster; parents already fatigued with overburdened expenses and short fuses; there is more wailing than I like from both parents and kids. The flight crew has everyone lined up and we stand and wait for fifteen minutes. It is a long wait, but Turner patiently sits in his umbrella stroller periodically checking in that we are finally getting closer to the famous airplane.
We board. Turner sits by the window, and we fasten his seatbelt. It is almost as though he disappears for the fifteen to twenty minutes it takes for the rest of the plane to board and the attendants to lock the doors. He says very little . . . at first. His eyes are transfixed on the few planes swishing around outside his window, backing up and trying to navigate the close turn of the terminal. Then the chattiness begins. He is pointing out everything: "Look Mommy, airplane." "Look Mommy going fast." "Look Mommy, schoolbus." We discuss the baggage handlers. I explain the fuel and the colors on the planes and the people with the orange vests. We start moving. "We going back." He gets even more excited, the smile overwhelming his face, pulling his lashes closer together in laughter. "We moving Mommy."
We rush down the runway toward Orlando and Disney and lots of craziness that seems to have begun for many children on board this flight (the flight attendant does a strip tease with the safety information and throws our snacks at us . . . literally she threw them at the entire plane of passengers). Turner grips the hand rest and then realizes it goes up and down. He becomes enthralled in that until I redirect his attention out the window where the ground is fading away. I tell him the ground is going away, soon we'll be in the clouds. He looks at our feet in puzzlement. I explain, in a different way, that the land is going farther away but the ground on which we stand in the plane will remain near and dear.
We eat snacks. We drink milk. We draw on the white write board. We talk. We look out the window. We are about fifteen minutes into a two hour flight. He is bored, antsy, and in need of a quick nap. He behaves admirably, as Turner normally does. He is excited to look out the window occasionally, to discuss the clouds, to eat a Ritz here and there. The seatbelt sign comes and goes and Turner resists wearing it. He starts to stand in front of our seats (we were the first row). He squeals a few times to remind us who is in charge. We threaten things that he knows we can't carry out on the airplane. We are all captive and irritating the woman across the aisle who is writing a series of medications on a piece of paper after reading an article from some lone soul wanting to be published in the journal for which she is a reader. I want to apologize to her. I don't. She seems irritable and Turner is really being very good . . . just antsy. He is two years old for goodness sake . . . this is what I want to tell her when she heaves a sigh as Andy takes Turner to the bathroom for a pee.
We have to get off of the plane and Turner is terribly disappointed. On the next flight to Ft. Myers he sits with La La and tells her everything he can think of. She retorts with her wealth of knowledge. Together they are pefectly well-behaved and learning.
This morning (Sunday) Turner is sitting on the potty asking to get back on the airplane. He doesn't realize it will take us back home, away from the beach and the pool and the fun and the relaxed parents and the aunt he so desperately loves. I know he doesn't feel the emptiness Andy and I scarf down each time we tell another figure in our lives good bye. So, I'm not ready to get on that plane because I know at the other end of the plane ride sits a best friend that I must leave behind, a family that will surely survive without us, and a home that is ours only in memories now.
Cheryl graciously takes us to the airport and runs length to length of the airport chasing Turner while Andy parks the car and I park our luggage at the check-in desk. For weeks we've heard about the airplane. I worried that the reality of the big hunk of steel, something which Turner wouldn't really even see as we were boarding, would not live up to his high expectations. Somewhere, in the many, many conversations we have shared with Turner about airplanes, we failed to mention that we must wait for the airplane to arrive at the airport. The terrible part of flying is the waiting at the airport. How could we forget that?
So we arrive at the airport. Turner sees many airplanes out the big glass windows lining each wall, and he becomes impatient to get on one. We have a little lunch. He is incessant. Our time arrives, we walk down the carpet to the last gate (of course) and discover that flying to Orlando in the summer holds an obvious displeasure we did not contemplate: Disney world travelers. Children so excited for Mickey and Minny and the goofster; parents already fatigued with overburdened expenses and short fuses; there is more wailing than I like from both parents and kids. The flight crew has everyone lined up and we stand and wait for fifteen minutes. It is a long wait, but Turner patiently sits in his umbrella stroller periodically checking in that we are finally getting closer to the famous airplane.
We board. Turner sits by the window, and we fasten his seatbelt. It is almost as though he disappears for the fifteen to twenty minutes it takes for the rest of the plane to board and the attendants to lock the doors. He says very little . . . at first. His eyes are transfixed on the few planes swishing around outside his window, backing up and trying to navigate the close turn of the terminal. Then the chattiness begins. He is pointing out everything: "Look Mommy, airplane." "Look Mommy going fast." "Look Mommy, schoolbus." We discuss the baggage handlers. I explain the fuel and the colors on the planes and the people with the orange vests. We start moving. "We going back." He gets even more excited, the smile overwhelming his face, pulling his lashes closer together in laughter. "We moving Mommy."
We rush down the runway toward Orlando and Disney and lots of craziness that seems to have begun for many children on board this flight (the flight attendant does a strip tease with the safety information and throws our snacks at us . . . literally she threw them at the entire plane of passengers). Turner grips the hand rest and then realizes it goes up and down. He becomes enthralled in that until I redirect his attention out the window where the ground is fading away. I tell him the ground is going away, soon we'll be in the clouds. He looks at our feet in puzzlement. I explain, in a different way, that the land is going farther away but the ground on which we stand in the plane will remain near and dear.
We eat snacks. We drink milk. We draw on the white write board. We talk. We look out the window. We are about fifteen minutes into a two hour flight. He is bored, antsy, and in need of a quick nap. He behaves admirably, as Turner normally does. He is excited to look out the window occasionally, to discuss the clouds, to eat a Ritz here and there. The seatbelt sign comes and goes and Turner resists wearing it. He starts to stand in front of our seats (we were the first row). He squeals a few times to remind us who is in charge. We threaten things that he knows we can't carry out on the airplane. We are all captive and irritating the woman across the aisle who is writing a series of medications on a piece of paper after reading an article from some lone soul wanting to be published in the journal for which she is a reader. I want to apologize to her. I don't. She seems irritable and Turner is really being very good . . . just antsy. He is two years old for goodness sake . . . this is what I want to tell her when she heaves a sigh as Andy takes Turner to the bathroom for a pee.
We have to get off of the plane and Turner is terribly disappointed. On the next flight to Ft. Myers he sits with La La and tells her everything he can think of. She retorts with her wealth of knowledge. Together they are pefectly well-behaved and learning.
This morning (Sunday) Turner is sitting on the potty asking to get back on the airplane. He doesn't realize it will take us back home, away from the beach and the pool and the fun and the relaxed parents and the aunt he so desperately loves. I know he doesn't feel the emptiness Andy and I scarf down each time we tell another figure in our lives good bye. So, I'm not ready to get on that plane because I know at the other end of the plane ride sits a best friend that I must leave behind, a family that will surely survive without us, and a home that is ours only in memories now.
Monday, June 18, 2007
The countdown is on!
Andy let it slip (though I don't really think it was a slip as much as a total lack of thinking about the consequences) that we are getting on an airplane soon. Turner's eyes lit up as though it was finally his birthday again (read the previous post about singing the birthday song; he sings it at least once a day now and then follows it up with "Chi birthday soon. Turner birthday far away").
He heard the news and took off running naked down our hallway, and rushing to my legs in the kitchen, he slams into me from pure adrenaline. "Airplane Mommy. Going up in the air Mommy. Airplane!" I tried to explain that yes we are going on an airplane but not until Thursday and that today was only Monday. Then I counted on my hands the number of days to pass before we would be sailing up in the air toward the beach. Never fear, if I didn't handle it correctly the first time I have practiced at least ten other ways of explaining to my two year old that the airplane ride does not happen today. We get in the car to go the gym and he asks about the airplane. He leave the gym to go to the book store, and he persistently tells me it is now time for the airplane. We walk out of the bookstore and Turner admonishes me to run as he pulls his knees high into his chest and yells, "We go on the airplane." Notice a pattern? Most people find this endearing. I would too, if I were Andy, the one who got to experience the full excitement of the news and then leaves for work. I've considered telling Turner we can't go on the airplane until Daddy does the dishes, just to see if Turner's persistence is more influential than mine. At moments today I've been tempted to look into those helicopter tours. I'm counting on my hands too and three more days of disappointing Turner seems tortuous.
He heard the news and took off running naked down our hallway, and rushing to my legs in the kitchen, he slams into me from pure adrenaline. "Airplane Mommy. Going up in the air Mommy. Airplane!" I tried to explain that yes we are going on an airplane but not until Thursday and that today was only Monday. Then I counted on my hands the number of days to pass before we would be sailing up in the air toward the beach. Never fear, if I didn't handle it correctly the first time I have practiced at least ten other ways of explaining to my two year old that the airplane ride does not happen today. We get in the car to go the gym and he asks about the airplane. He leave the gym to go to the book store, and he persistently tells me it is now time for the airplane. We walk out of the bookstore and Turner admonishes me to run as he pulls his knees high into his chest and yells, "We go on the airplane." Notice a pattern? Most people find this endearing. I would too, if I were Andy, the one who got to experience the full excitement of the news and then leaves for work. I've considered telling Turner we can't go on the airplane until Daddy does the dishes, just to see if Turner's persistence is more influential than mine. At moments today I've been tempted to look into those helicopter tours. I'm counting on my hands too and three more days of disappointing Turner seems tortuous.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
"T U R...N E R my name is Mommy"
I look at Turner and am amazed by him moment by moment. This does not make me an unusual parent. In fact, this is probably one of the few qualities I harbor that makes me a 'normal' parent (however one can define normal is beyond me, but apparently there are agreed upon social constructions of normal parenting). A perfect example of my not-normal way of parenting involves crying. Most parents consider crying in front of their children an element of failure. I see my crying to be an emotional release at times that prevents me from yelling or second-guessing myself or becoming distraught with the workload of parenting. When my two year old refuses to pick up his feet and get out the door, throws food in the floor repeatedly to grab my attention, or pulls out that high pitched shrill (which he has began exercising as a way to assert his independence from our rules), I lose a little eye water in desperation. So when I cry in front of him--because nothing I am doing will stop the shrill and the very odd laughter that follows his shrill--I think that is OK. As soon as Turner sees the tears he realizes that his behavior has effects on others. It is simple: the screaming can make mommy cry. The crying makes the screaming instantly turn into a sweet embrace and sloppy kiss from the most amazing child. Though his screaming is meant to push my buttons, the solace he offers me when he sees a tear reassures me that at his very core he doesn't know how to purposefully hurt others. He hits because he doesn't understand that it hurts other people.
The line between play and terrorizing others can be for (most) grown ups very clear, but for a child I am beginning to understand the grayness of these behaviors. His mind works in amazing ways; all of our brains do. But in a child, the way his brain works is more easily witnessed because the world has not yet conditioned him to keep secrets or harbor information for fear of rejection, distrust, or isolation.
The line between play and terrorizing others can be for (most) grown ups very clear, but for a child I am beginning to understand the grayness of these behaviors. His mind works in amazing ways; all of our brains do. But in a child, the way his brain works is more easily witnessed because the world has not yet conditioned him to keep secrets or harbor information for fear of rejection, distrust, or isolation.
In the morning, for example, he tries to rouse us from sleep by biting. He inevitably gets two warnings (or threats) of time out and then ends up with a quick swatting that shocks him and hurts his feelings. He wears these emotions on his face because he hasn't learned how to hide them yet. But I'm reminded that many times when I try to get Turner's attention re-focused onto a new task, I pretend to eat him. I don't bite him, but I open my mouth with soft lips covering my teeth and pretend to eat corn off his arm or gnaw at his deliciously round cheeks. He wants our attention in the mornings so he tries to pretend eat me, but doesn't quite have it down yet.
As I look back, of course, Turner's shrill and his biting seem very simple. He screams. I cry. Then we get to cuddle and regroup. In the mornings he is attempting to be playful and I reward him with scolding when I'm the one who taught him to play in this fashion. Parenting can't happen in recollection though. It happens in a split second everyday, every moment and we all need to make better choices to better understand why the child is doing an unpleasant behavior. The answer is always there, and it requires investigative work. Too bad so many of us have little energy for thinking, let alone planning, recollecting, and analyzing. Long preface on how obvious Turner's mind intricacies are becoming to me; here is the real story . . .
I'm looking at Turner day before yesterday and thinking how smart he is. I'm not one of those moms trying to make Turner out to be the smartest boy ever (he already is in my mind anyway). Instead we do learn traditional things (colors, numbers, ABCs, etc) when the opportunity presents itself, but I am working more on teaching Turner how to live like a kid and enjoy the few short years of blissfulness he deserves. It is a noble plan I know! Anyway, day before yesterday I heard a kid spelling his name somewhere (probably the grocery or at the gym, which are the two most common destinations for Turner and I) and thought Turner should learn to spell his name. I made up a little song to help him remember: "T U R [pause] N E R, my name is Turner. I spell my name most every day. T U R [pause] N E R my name is Turner." I'm driving down the road leaving the place with the spelling kid and I start singing this ditty to Turner. He picks up the spelling part immediately. "T U R...N E R" The letters aren't super clear, but if you know his purpose, you know his song. He spells it again. "T U R N E R I spell my name. T U R N E R my name is Mommy."
In the introspective nature of Turner, if I'm singing a song that uses his name then when he repeats the song to me it only makes sense to him that he should use my name. He is good at repeating what I say, but even better at making it his own. This is one of my most favorite quality of his, he chooses to think instead of simply react.
I'm looking at Turner day before yesterday and thinking how smart he is. I'm not one of those moms trying to make Turner out to be the smartest boy ever (he already is in my mind anyway). Instead we do learn traditional things (colors, numbers, ABCs, etc) when the opportunity presents itself, but I am working more on teaching Turner how to live like a kid and enjoy the few short years of blissfulness he deserves. It is a noble plan I know! Anyway, day before yesterday I heard a kid spelling his name somewhere (probably the grocery or at the gym, which are the two most common destinations for Turner and I) and thought Turner should learn to spell his name. I made up a little song to help him remember: "T U R [pause] N E R, my name is Turner. I spell my name most every day. T U R [pause] N E R my name is Turner." I'm driving down the road leaving the place with the spelling kid and I start singing this ditty to Turner. He picks up the spelling part immediately. "T U R...N E R" The letters aren't super clear, but if you know his purpose, you know his song. He spells it again. "T U R N E R I spell my name. T U R N E R my name is Mommy."
In the introspective nature of Turner, if I'm singing a song that uses his name then when he repeats the song to me it only makes sense to him that he should use my name. He is good at repeating what I say, but even better at making it his own. This is one of my most favorite quality of his, he chooses to think instead of simply react.
I preach to my students all of the time that the greatest weakness a student can have is to not question their professors, the knowledge their professors value, and the material that their profs value so much they deem it necessary for students to know. We should all ask why more often instead of simply fussing about the way things are. Without the 'why' then there can be no action. The things students retain the most in the classroom are the side conversations, the talking that takes place in my office or after class as we rush down the hallway. These conversations remind students that professors are humans, but students need to remain skeptical and inquisitive during these conversations too. If I'm lashing out about the A&S Dean restricting travel funds for faculty members, then I want my students to wonder how does this affect them; it does, but they assume it doesn't and these assumptions are what lead us into situations where we feel like we do not have the power to change things.
So, when Turner improves one of my songs with his personality and introspection, then I am the happiest lark in the park evan as I watch my little one push a little girl out of his way because "I wait Mommy and she no share the slide." I've ridden with several drivers who believe that believe tailgating will push people out of their way, so Turner's logic doesn't seem too far fetched.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Gone fishing!
"Happy birthday dear Pa Pa"
We heard this song for over a week. We go to Glasgow Thursday to Sunday to celebrate Daddy's 62 birthday and Grandma's 85th. For Daddy's birthday we load our stuff up early Friday morning and head to the lake to fish. Turner got a new fishing pole that had a little fish tied to the end of the line. He cast and recast that baby for hours. We search for crappie only to find one very small crappie and two little blue gill (I have no idea how to spell that). When Daddy hooks a fish he lets Turner bring it into the boat. He doesn't love the feel of the fish, but as any true fisherman can attest, the joy is in the hunt. After the first fish, Turner begs Pa Pa to bring in more, unaware that it isn't an immediate possibility to bring a fish into the boat each time he demands. He claps and squeals a few times during his search for fish. In the off moments of reeling other fish in, Turner throws his line into the water to reel in a bright red plastic fish every single time. And with every "catch" he shouts with excitement, "Look Mommy. I'm fishing."
When the sun becomes too much or our impatience leads us astray, Turner will grasp the steering wheel and drive us to a new location. "Go fast Pa Pa." Then, shouting over the wind noise you can barely hear him utter, "I'm going fast Mommy."
He drives us in circles when the coast is clear (there was a fishing tournament going on so the lake was quite busy).
At home, he continue to work his rod and reel to catch the cat and anything else that is willing to chase his plastic fish. He prods the cat with the end of the pole, pushes at Mom's flowers in hopes of uncovering a fish in the flower bed, and runs full speed to show us what he caught anytime we throw a glance his way. He has yet to cease his storytelling about fishing with Pa Pa, as well as his singing of Pa Pa's birthday song.
We heard this song for over a week. We go to Glasgow Thursday to Sunday to celebrate Daddy's 62 birthday and Grandma's 85th. For Daddy's birthday we load our stuff up early Friday morning and head to the lake to fish. Turner got a new fishing pole that had a little fish tied to the end of the line. He cast and recast that baby for hours. We search for crappie only to find one very small crappie and two little blue gill (I have no idea how to spell that). When Daddy hooks a fish he lets Turner bring it into the boat. He doesn't love the feel of the fish, but as any true fisherman can attest, the joy is in the hunt. After the first fish, Turner begs Pa Pa to bring in more, unaware that it isn't an immediate possibility to bring a fish into the boat each time he demands. He claps and squeals a few times during his search for fish. In the off moments of reeling other fish in, Turner throws his line into the water to reel in a bright red plastic fish every single time. And with every "catch" he shouts with excitement, "Look Mommy. I'm fishing."
When the sun becomes too much or our impatience leads us astray, Turner will grasp the steering wheel and drive us to a new location. "Go fast Pa Pa." Then, shouting over the wind noise you can barely hear him utter, "I'm going fast Mommy."
He drives us in circles when the coast is clear (there was a fishing tournament going on so the lake was quite busy).
At home, he continue to work his rod and reel to catch the cat and anything else that is willing to chase his plastic fish. He prods the cat with the end of the pole, pushes at Mom's flowers in hopes of uncovering a fish in the flower bed, and runs full speed to show us what he caught anytime we throw a glance his way. He has yet to cease his storytelling about fishing with Pa Pa, as well as his singing of Pa Pa's birthday song.
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