I Growed Bigger and Bigger

Turner tells me this morning as he snuggles to my chest in bed, "I growed bigger and bigger." He is fascinated, as all people are, with his rate of growth. He is most concerned with getting taller so that he can better participate in the big boy activities. In my sleepy stupor this morning, however, I did not make the connection of his proclamation right away. He repeated himself again, patiently hoping I would notice the obvious difference his growth had taken in less than eight hours. Then he says the key ingredient for my understanding: baseball.

Several weeks ago Turner and I went to the park to feed the ducks and walk around the fort. Young boys were arranging for baseball practice, and I asked Turner if he would like to watch. He obliged. I sat in the grass, and he squatted next to me for about fifteen minutes entranced by the boys throwing balls back and forth as they warmed up for practice. After the fifteen window passed he jumped up and I struggled to my feet. Turner looks at me perplexed. "Sit down Mommy. Practice is not over." I figured his jumping to his feet meant we were leaving. Nope. He just wanted to sit in my lap because the grass was itchy. He sat in my lap, and we watched the boys (who were probably around 9 or 10; some of them had the start of facial hair so however old that makes them).

They finished pithcing to one another and the coach went to home plate. He taps balls out into the field and the boys yell numbers depending upon who is suppose to catch the ball and where he is suppose to throw it. It was interesting and nothing like my softball practices in girlhood. Turner yelled back anytime a boy dropped the ball or missed a catch. "He dropped it." or worse "Get that ball, boy." I laughed, a novice parent mistake. When the next missed pitch occured I reprimanded Turner and explained it was all a learning process. We miss sometimes in life, and that miss can be the most rewarding lesson learned.

As we were leaving he asks to play baseball. I talk to him about his trip with PK to a real game and he tells those "boys" were "really big." I told him that when he grows more and gets a little bigger he can be on a T-ball team. At random times when he thinks about baseball, sees a baseball, or hears someone mention it he informs me he has grown and can now play with the other boys. This morning, though, I'm not sure what sparked his desire to play and grow more as proof of his ability to participate. Perhaps it is because Cheryl is coming today and she reminds him (and us) of all the people who can't come with her...PK the baseball guy, for example. I have no idea how his complex little mind works, but I'm here to assure everyone that at the rate Turner is growing he'll be out on that field in no time.

Just watching the music Mommy. I no touch I promise.

This morning Turner lazily pulled himself into my bed as he has been doing every morning since the move into our new place. He wakes up around 5 AM, pokes me so that I'll pull him into the bed, and he snuggles his cheek flush to mine so I can smell his morning breath. He vanishes back into dreamland after at least thirty minutes of groans and grumbles from me to re-emerge around 6:30 or 7.

This morning, I did not fight him. When he brought himself into the bedroom at 6:30 I just got up and started our day. Of course I was encouraged to do this because Turner had peed in his sleep, and I needed to do some sanitizing. Either way, I was up before I wanted to be and chatting with him about his day. I remember my mother, the perpetual morning person, chatting away to me in the morning from her blue bathrobe while I hovered over corn flakes and responded in silence. Turner is now the chatty one in the morning and I continue to respect the no-talking-before-ten-rule by smiling at him a lot and touching his head, inserting the occasional "uh huh" when and where appropriate.

I make us some pancakes. Slice strawberries. Find the syrup. Cut it all up. Serve it to him. He eats and runs his cars around the table, narrating their race drama to me. I sit down to eat my pancake. I unload the dishwasher. I clean the cabinets. I unpack a box. The green car is winning but, oh wait Mommy, the ambulance is passing him. Everybody is clapping. I kiss his head and wonder how he knows so much. I return to his pancake and prompt him to do less chatting and more eating. He obliges for a moment. I think about lunches and clothes and hunt for clean underwear for the little guy (and me too of course). I secure the necessary undercloths, throw Turner's plate in the garbage, convince him he can ride his tricycle after school, and we are finally on our way up the stairs to the shower.

As always, he resists the shower. I shower alone and give him a good wipe down. I turn Pandora.com on and listen to a little Norah Jones. While I'm drying hair, curling eyelashes, and finding some clothes to wear that are presentation-worthy, yet bicycle appropriate, Turner disappears into the office. I go check on him. He is sitting in the desk chair, his knees pulled to his bare chest, little basketballs that once danced more vibrantly on his faded underwear are pinned to a kitchen chair that is now the desk chair. He looks up at me and wraps his arms around his knees like a teenager. "I just watching the music Mommy. I no touch. I promise." I smile. I must absolutely kiss his forehead again. I thank him for respecting Mommy's expensive toy (the computer). I ask why he likes watching the music. He says it makes him feel good. Music feeds my spirit too.