My Girlfriend.

This is old information, but I thought I'd write about it anyway (since I'm still waiting for the chair of the department to show up for our noon meeting; he is forty minutes late).

I go to Turner's school about two months ago. I get there and he and a little girl with blonde ringlets are sitting in little chairs facing the bulletin board. I walk in. He smells me it seems and whips his head around and comes running with arms wide like he does every single day (deep sigh...Please I hope he never stops greeting me this way). "I'm driving Mommy."
"Where are you driving?"
"I'm driving Ginger."
The blonde speaks "Turner?"
He gets back into his "car" and puts his hands on the make-believe steering wheel. He makes the driving noise. Ginger pulls something from her lap. It is a large, very pink, pretend cellular phone. She starts gabbing on it. She points at something invisible in the distance. "There Turner. There it is."
He whips the car in the direction she has pointed. He gets out. Waves to her while she gabs on her cell phone. "Bye." He grabs my hand. We walk out the door.

At the dinner table a month or so later. I ask about Turner's day and if he played with Ginger. Yes, of course he did.
"Why do you like Ginger so much?"
"She is my girlfriend."
"Oh really. What does that mean?"
No answer.
"Why is she your girlfriend?"
"Cuz I kiss her."
"You kiss her? Where?"
"On the mouth. All the time." (I corroborate this story with his teacher who says they are very affectionate but there isn't that much kissing, it doesn't happen on the mouth, it doesn't happen all the time.)
"Why do you kiss her?"
"I love her."
Well...I must live with that. FYI: Her parents seem wonderful, established people. Her mother is an opera singer in a PhD program at the University. Her dad is a creative photographer and a realtor (and one of those guys who talks too close to you). Ginger is very sweet and always happy to see Turner. What more could a mother ask for? He brings her happiness and she offers him the same.

No way!

My folks were in town last weekend/beginning of the week. While they were here Turner started reproducing a new phrase (there is a new one all the time it seems).

"No Way Hosee Momma." Hosee is pronounced as ho and see.

Why am I Hosee's momma? I don' t know. Where did he hear it? I don't know. I blame most things on school so we'll go with that.

Why?!

Why? pause for breath Why? pause for breath Why? pause for breath Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Because.
Why?
Because.
Why?
Because Jesus made it that way.
Why?
Because He has infinite wisdom.
Why?
Because He ate lots of broccoli as a kid.
Why?
Because Mary said so.
Who?
Mary is his mommy.
Why?
Because that was the plan.
Why?
Because it just was.
Why?
Because.
Why?
Turner. Stop asking why. A long pause.
Why?
Because I asked you to.
Why?
Because it is annoying to try and do homework and you keep asking me questions.
Why?
I don't know why. You just keep asking and asking.
Why?
You are inquisitive.
Why?
Because I read Newsweek to you too much.
Why?
Because I want you to have a political platform for when you change the world.
Why?
Because moms and dads always like to hear thank you. And you'll thank us someday for talking to you about politics.
Thank you Mommy.
Your welcome Turner.
He kisses me. Turns on his heels. Returns to his train set. In less than ten minutes we will do the why dance another time.

What's that Noise?...Then the Injury

I know this blog is about Turner, but this is just too good to pass the opportunity to share my typical Amanda moment with you all.

I FINALLY get Turner's wagon emptied a few weeks ago with the promise to myself I would start taking Turner on walks in the afternoon. I want to explore our neighborhood, I don't get any exercise anymore, and I am running out of cool projects to do before dinner. SO, we go for a walk today.

The roads here are not paved the way they are in Kentucky. The city throws rocks down and ten tar on top of that and lets the cars drive over it to smooth it out. You can venture to guess the roads are NOT smooth. Cheryl can validate this. So Turner is chewing teeth as we ramble around the neighborhood in his wagon. We pass yappy dogs. "What's that noise Mommy." I must explain here that Turner says this phrase no less than four hundred times a day...and he is at preschool for about six hours a day. He normally knows the answer before he asks the question, but some voice in his head requires that he must ask the question nonetheless.

I scan the side of the street looking for the dogs (because it isn't enough to just answer his question, you must also identify the noise maker and explain, at times, why the noise maker is making the noise). So, he asks for the noise. I look for the noisemaker. Keep in mind that my walking pace is with the intent of exercise, so I'm speed walking. "There, Turner. Over there are the yappy dogs." Within a half second I feel as though my head has split open. I have made a terrible non-native Tucson error...walking into something prickly. A large tree/bush thing with spiky "leaves" attackes my head. Turner hears a new noise. "What's that noise?" "It's Mommy sucking in my breath, trying not to say something inappropriate." Man, this hurts.

The Haircut...Ouch!

Turner got his second haircut (in 2 and 1/2 years) on Tuesday of last week (sorry, life is a little busy and can't get the blogs posted like I should). I got home from class around 7 and put Turner in the bath. Without any water in the bathtub, I pull out the clippers. He is patiently waiting in full exposure; I flip the instrument on. Buzzzz. His eyes are wide and he is, for proably the first time all day, silent. I pull a section of blonde curl out and whiz it off. It falls down his back. He yelps, "Ouch!"

Did I forget the clipper guard? Oh my gosh, is there a clipper guard? What have I lobbed off with the deadly, two inch clippers? "What is hurt, buddy?" The concern in my head much more urgent, the tone in my voice, as always with Turner, is soft and even. "That hair hurt my back." He reaches as best he can around his back and tries to scratch where the large hunk of hair fell moments before. Good. Ears are still attached.

Hair keeps getting shorter and shorter as I try to even it up. I'm reminded of a Berry Christmas story where some child (probably Lori or Laura since all the ailments were inflicted on these angels) was mid haircut with bangs sideways and an inch long as a mom worked to straighten things out. I stop cutting and figure it will grow out. A little unevenness is better than no hair at all. Last haircut was much easier. Turner was much smaller and more willing to sit quietly while I took 45 mintues to cut his hair. This haircut took about three minutes. It shows, but he looks so much older now without his baby locks. Everyday there is one more step we make toward boyhood, forever distancing ourselves from that little being who so contently slept on my chest every afternoon while I slurped down ice cream, "interepreted" the editorials for him, and could laugh out loud at his snorts without waking him.

One more little thing - Turner needs "oderant" now, most every morning. No matter how often I say deoderant, he says "Yeah Mommy. I stinky. I need some oderant."

The pictures are of Turner in the kitchen making a masterpiece (thanks Grandmother for the easel. I finally put it together this weekend and he draws, recites colors, erases, colors pictures, and drops chalk while I cook). The other picture is us at the park (the day I talked to you Laura). He is driving the rocket and sliding rocket to safety. Hmm....wonder if I could find him a rocket for Halloween? :) That would be perfect. Mission completed!