Turner woke up from his nap hungry. He wanted like Corn Flakes (see previous blog if that doesn't resonate with you). Since I was sick--think coma on the couch kind of sick--for four days in a row Turner had his share of cereal this week. So, I bargain with him. If he'll eat two vegetables and a protein then he can have some cereal. He agrees. We search for vegetables and are forced to settle on whole grain rice (I know...) and carrots (hard, not soft, pealed, in long strips not in circles or triangles). We add two vegetarian Chicken nuggets to the mix, and he gladly pushes the button on the microwave. Before I can get the carrots made to order, he asks for two more nuggets. I offer all the bounty to him and seat myself at assessment theory (I have other plans for dinner that don't happen at 4:30 pm).
"Turner, please don't put your fingers in your cereal."
"Why?" He continues to dip his middle finger in and out of the milk in his specially requested blue bowl.
I look up from my book. "Because it is bad table manners. It is not polite. You must use your spoon."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Turner." Talking back is HUGE problem as of late. I'm not really sure how to deal with it.
"Moooom." He smiles. I must smile in return; it is impossible to not do so.
"Turner. Please don't talk back to me. I asked you to stop putting your fingers in your cereal. We use our utensils. It is bad manners."
"I'm just tryin' to get all the like corn flakes dunked."
"You can use your spoon for that."
"No I can't. It doesn't work the same." He probably has a point here, but...
"Nevertheless, it is bad manners to put your fingers in your food."
"No it's not."
"How do you know table etiquette better than I?"
"Cuz I do."
"But I'm older. Don't you think I would know the rules more than you do? Isn't my job to teach you the rules that were taught to me?"
"No. I'm older. I know. I know the rules. There are none about fingers in like corn flakes."
"How are you older than I? You grew into a little baby in my belly."
"No I didn't." He is coy this time, not defensive. The smile sneaks across his face.
"Yes you did." I mimick his tone. "You were just a little spot that came from love that grew and grew and grew into a great big baby that kicked a bunch. You made mommy's belly super big and round, and Daddy and I talked to you, and Daddy kissed my belly because you were on the other side, and you kicked him sometimes. We smiled a lot. I rubbed my belly all the time wondering what you looked like and never in my mind did you put your fingers in your cereal. I just knew you were going to have good table manners."
"Oh." He quietly peers into his cereal bowl. After a few moments - I pick up my book and watch him - he picks up his spoon and takes a big bite. He chews thoughtfully. He bites again. He chews again. Something comes to him and he starts to speak. Milk drips down his chin and I remind him to speak when he doesn't have food in his mouth...back to the table manners thing.
"You know Mom," he doesn't really give me much room to respond, "I member when you grew in my belly. I had all the stuff inside to grow a baby [An aside: Earlier today I asked if Turner's make believe dinosaurs were girls or boys and he said boys with babies like Dumbo and I said that only girls could carry babies in their bellies because they had special stuff to do that]. And, you kicked lots and lots. And, Daddy kissed you through my belly and he loooved you Mommy. You growed in my belly and kicked a lot. Daddy rubbed my belly and it was super big and round [he demonstrates] and I loved you. We were all smiles."
"Oh." I'm surprised, of course, that he listens to me so well.
"Yep. So see Mommy." He stuffs cereal into his mouth with his specially chosen spoon. "I'm older."
"You know what Turner, there might come a day when you really are older than Mommy."
"It's Friday."
"Oh is that when it will be?"
"Yep. And then I won't need spoons."
"Hmmm. We'll see about that."
"Are we ready to see peace?"
"What?"
"It's getting dark outside. Will we beat it to the music?" We are going to a anti-war peace rally/fundraiser in the basement of the Christian Church down the street. They are having all-you-can-eat vegetarian spaghetti (which was actually really, really good with all sorts of vegetables in the sauce and it was HOT) for $5 and blues music.
"Well the music starts at 6 and Mommy needs to change clothes. The music happens inside so it doesn't matter that it is dark outside."
"Oh. Are you ready?"
"Are you ready to go?"
"I'm ready to hear the music."
"Okay."
As we are leaving the church Turner clutches my hand (he ate caramel corn while I stuffed two helpings of spaghetti in my face, oh and the homemade bread was yum). "Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Is there peace now?"
"Do you feel peace in your heart?"
"Yeah. Like a baby."
"Well," I want to cry a little, "that is the greatest peace we can probably ever find in our lives Turner."
"I thought so."
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
I hesitate to title this blog because there is so much to report. Perhaps Turner's BIG day is more appropriate. Well, more like Turner's BIG Thursday and Friday and Saturday.
Dawn and Chiara arrived Thursday night. Friday Andy and I slept in (9 AM) while Turner sweetened himself with the generosity of Chiara and Dawn. His first request was milk. Dawn opens the refrigerator door and Turner spots the chocolate sauce and asks for chocolate milk. When I rolled out of bed, Turner smiled a huge smile and showed me his chocolate milk. Dawn acted surprised, as though she doesn't really know Turner doesn't usually have chocolate milk for breakfast. Dawn, Andy, and I spent much of the rest of the day painting the kitchen (a beautiful olive green color) and the entrance wall in the living room (a deep, midnight blue with a hint of gray and purple). Our big painting will look amazing against the darkness of the wall. We plan, not this weekend but someday, to paint the rest of the living room and very light blue. Turner's room will get a new, orange wall whenever I get motivated to get off this couch.
Friday night Turner and Andy got to catch up with each other while the rest of us had a girl's night out. Turner's fever was still high when he woke up from his nap so he and Andy didn't join us for dinner.
Today, Turner slept in and woke me up with kisses and demands to see Dawn downstairs. After bacon, waffles, eggs (hard boiled and scrambled), Chiara and I go to the grocery to get supplies for the COLORS party on Sunday (we're celebrating our freshly painted walls). Turner and Dawn go to Chuck E. Cheese where Turner finds solace in a fishing game. He plays and plays and plays. He moves on to another game. Returns to the fishing game to find other children fishing. He runs from Dawn's reach and pushes another kid. I'm sure he believed the fishing game was his. Either way, Dawn secures the bully and they retreat to Wal-Mart.
I hear the front door barrel open as I'm pulling white chocolate cheesecake from the oven.
"MOM!! I got fisheys." Turner runs into the kitchen with Dawn trailing behind with a big smile and two fish. She doesn't speak. She just grins at me. Turner is about to explode inside as he looks at them. He is so excited.
"MOM!! I got fisheys." Turner runs into the kitchen with Dawn trailing behind with a big smile and two fish. She doesn't speak. She just grins at me. Turner is about to explode inside as he looks at them. He is so excited.
"Oh Wow." That is all I can say. And, I keep saying it over and over. "Oh, wow buddy. Oh, wow. Fish. Wow."
"I got two of them."
"Really." I sit down at the table. I bring him to my lap. We look over the two goldfish frantically swimming into the sides of a plastic bag. "What are you naming them?"
"Orange and Tuna." He says this very matter of fact.
"Hmm. Interesting names Buddy."
"Can I go fishing with them now?"
"No. These are fish to watch not fish for."
We are post-nap now. Turner woke up about three minutes ago. He asks first thing about the fish. He and Dawn are fixing the fish bowl and feeding Orange and Tuna. Tuna, apparently, is refusing to eat. Chiara is taking pictures, documenting what I can't right now. I wonder how long they will last. There are many threatening things their survival: 1 - Turner wants to catch them with his fishing pole. 2 - Turner wants to chase them with the little fish net. 3 - There are all these rules about cleaning the bowl. I don't know all of them. 4 - You must clean the bowl every week AND, more unfortunate, the fish want to be fed on a regular basis. Dawn assures me though that Orange and Tuna are not one of a kind. All orange fisheys look just the same...thank goodness.
UPDATE: Tuna diead at 11:30 today.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Ummmm Mooooom!
The weather is surprising to me. The sun greets us every day and warms the desert to a crisp 67 degrees. At night, we are bundled in jackets surrounded by 35 degree air. The major drop in temperature happens during baseball practice.
Between 4 and 5 in the afternoon, the sun's sinking into the earth becomes obvious and the breeze pushes out about fifteen degrees of warmth from the air. Turner and I have held baseball practice each day this week (except Monday). I pick him up at 2 or so. We go to the park. Sometimes we begin with baseball. Other days we frequented the slides and spent quality time on Turner's favorite park item: the swing (on Thursday I pushed him for thirty minutes on the swing. As soon as he was convinced to move on, he jumped from the swing and walked into the path of the little girl who had been swinging next to us. He has a nice swollen nose and bruise on his forehead.) We always return to baseball on our front sidewalk around 4. We begin the game in short sleeves and by the end of it Turner is sheltered by a hat and asking me to warm him up, even though he's "still busy with baseball."
We came in from baseball earlier this afternoon so Turner and I could go visit Andy at work. Turner is reluctant to come inside, though I am able to finally shoo him to the bathroom to take care of business and wash his hands before we leave. I am in the kitchen getting some things together. I hear him push the stool to the light switch and push it on. Then the stool is drug back to the toilet and the seat lid bangs to the tank. He is grumbling/mumbling. I hear the water works start. Then it pauses. Then Turner screams like he is eight years old and in a television commercial, "Ummmmm Mooooommmmm!"
"Yes Turner?"
"I um I um come here."
I go to the bathroom. Turner is perched on his small stool, his pants hovering between his knees and his ankles. His eyes are wide open, "I peed aaaaalllll over the floor." He moves his hand like Vanna White. I laugh. I dislike that I clean up urine each day, but I laugh anyway.
Turner struggles down from his stool. Points out the pee on his pants. He relays the story to me. Somehow he "saw something." In the looking for where it went -- apparently it was a flying something -- he peed on the back of the toilet seat, which sprayed the liquid in various directions. "I look at the floor," which means he probably bent over the toilet and looks at the floor and that is when he "peed all over it."
Between 4 and 5 in the afternoon, the sun's sinking into the earth becomes obvious and the breeze pushes out about fifteen degrees of warmth from the air. Turner and I have held baseball practice each day this week (except Monday). I pick him up at 2 or so. We go to the park. Sometimes we begin with baseball. Other days we frequented the slides and spent quality time on Turner's favorite park item: the swing (on Thursday I pushed him for thirty minutes on the swing. As soon as he was convinced to move on, he jumped from the swing and walked into the path of the little girl who had been swinging next to us. He has a nice swollen nose and bruise on his forehead.) We always return to baseball on our front sidewalk around 4. We begin the game in short sleeves and by the end of it Turner is sheltered by a hat and asking me to warm him up, even though he's "still busy with baseball."
We came in from baseball earlier this afternoon so Turner and I could go visit Andy at work. Turner is reluctant to come inside, though I am able to finally shoo him to the bathroom to take care of business and wash his hands before we leave. I am in the kitchen getting some things together. I hear him push the stool to the light switch and push it on. Then the stool is drug back to the toilet and the seat lid bangs to the tank. He is grumbling/mumbling. I hear the water works start. Then it pauses. Then Turner screams like he is eight years old and in a television commercial, "Ummmmm Mooooommmmm!"
"Yes Turner?"
"I um I um come here."
I go to the bathroom. Turner is perched on his small stool, his pants hovering between his knees and his ankles. His eyes are wide open, "I peed aaaaalllll over the floor." He moves his hand like Vanna White. I laugh. I dislike that I clean up urine each day, but I laugh anyway.
Turner struggles down from his stool. Points out the pee on his pants. He relays the story to me. Somehow he "saw something." In the looking for where it went -- apparently it was a flying something -- he peed on the back of the toilet seat, which sprayed the liquid in various directions. "I look at the floor," which means he probably bent over the toilet and looks at the floor and that is when he "peed all over it."
Monday, January 7, 2008
My eyes
I pick Turner up from his first day back at school. He is all grins and jumping. I figure he got his last breathing treatment a little late and it is just now kicking in. I don't blame them; if he weren't my kid, I'd hold off on the madness of steroids as long as possible too.
We are on our way home. He is quietly eating the snack I packed for him...apple slices.
"Mommy. You have blue eyes?"
"Yes I do. What color are your eyes?"
"Black!"
"Yeah, they are pretty close to black. They are really, really, really dark brown."
"No they aren't." He sounds offended. "They are the mostest brown." The logic is there and I'm laughing because outsiders might be curious about why I would encourage my child's inaccurate notation of degree. I love it though because he and I play the mostest game about who loves whom the mostest. He has never referred to anything else with 'mostest' language.
Another noteworthy moment of our day...Andy and I joined a gym AND we actually worked out together.
We are on our way home. He is quietly eating the snack I packed for him...apple slices.
"Mommy. You have blue eyes?"
"Yes I do. What color are your eyes?"
"Black!"
"Yeah, they are pretty close to black. They are really, really, really dark brown."
"No they aren't." He sounds offended. "They are the mostest brown." The logic is there and I'm laughing because outsiders might be curious about why I would encourage my child's inaccurate notation of degree. I love it though because he and I play the mostest game about who loves whom the mostest. He has never referred to anything else with 'mostest' language.
Another noteworthy moment of our day...Andy and I joined a gym AND we actually worked out together.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Home...can we stay awhile?
I won't write about the plane ride home other than to say, in short, it was not as pleasant as the trip to Nashville. We made it, and we made it safely; that is all that matters.
Turner and I drag our weariness through the Tucson airport. Our stroller is MIA. I am carrying a large, striped bag loaded with enough treats to get us through the Cold War; a little boy's backpack filled to the brim with a pillow, movies, and a variety of items intended to hold a little boy's attention on a very, very long plane ride; a little boy who is 3 foot 2 inches tall; a clutch that won't fit into the striped bag; and La La Bear. Turner walked from Terminal C to the first escalator. I prepare him: "Turner. Mommy has lots in my hands. You need to hold tightly to La La Bear and hold my hand with your left hand. We will take one big step and get on the moving stairs."
There are people rushing around us; three planes landed at the same time (which made the baggage situation as entertaining as the rest of our flight). He obliges. We get to the top of the escalator and Turner falls to his bottom about two paces before it. A large gentleman steps on my hand as I try to pull Turner to my hip. Another woman yells for those behind her to watch out for the kid as she (quite literally steps directly over Turner's head. Another person bumps into my stooped over body and almost sends me off balance into the moving stairs. A man in uniform helps me pull Turner to my hip. I am grateful and don't think I even say thank you. Just pull the tears back into my eyes as I take the stairs. I get to the bottom and Turner yells "Daddy." Thank goodness! I hand him Turner and try to readjust my agglomeration of stuff so I can hug my very friendly looking husband.
"How's it going Daddy?"
Andy laughs. "How's it going? Is that what you said?"
Turner laughs this time. "Yeah." They kiss. We kiss. We begin the unending wait for our luggage. It is closing in on midnight. Turner just had a breathing treatment. They-he and Andy-rush around the airport yelling and chasing. All the people who shared my flight smile in acknowledgement of the sweet, but very tired and sick little boy who is finally home with his Daddy again.
All the way from Nashville, Turner has been talking about his Santa present in the living room. Since we were away for Christmas, Santa delivered Turner's presents to an empty house again this year. But, this year Turner is old enough to remember and to be excited about what awaits him in the familiar living room. He bursts into the house searching. The bike that we (Andy and I) had hoped would be there couldn't be. It seems Santa needed some extra time to find that. So, there was some Thomas the train tracks to complete the wonderful things he received from all his Kentucky family. He demanded to play with it then. I took a few pictures and disappeared in a bathroom that was amazingly familiar with toothpaste on the mirror and little boy tub toys strewn across a cold tile floor. I come back relieved of my contact lenses and dirty face to find my boys spread onto the floor at 1 AM playing trains.
This morning I wake up to the familiar sound of feet stomping through the bathroom to Andy's side of the bed. It is not yet daylight. He climbs into our bed and is passive for a bit. Later I hear Andy take him downstairs to return him to his train. Andy returns to our bed. We listen to his very elaborate conversation and encouraging of Thomas: "You can do it Thomas. You can do it boy. Chug, chug. Go for it." We give up the warmth of being in our bed together again when I drift into the shower. Andy retreats to his train play.
I step out the front door to rush to the produce market and the organic market to get meat and vegetables. I can't wait to eat vegetables! The air blasts me in the face and I want to smile and sweat. It is a vastly different climate than the 19 degrees we left in Glasgow. The sun smooths over my cheeks and the 60 degree wind unsettles my barely dry hair. I stand on the sidewalk and am flooded with the realization that this is home now. I yell to Andy what a nice day it is. I see it in his smile that he also is realizing that this new "home" has many perks. Then the car won't start. My old car is a dedicated and honest vehicle that needed to show her discontent of being left all alone for more than two weeks. Andy hadn't started it since he returned. She was mad. I fiddle with her and move on.
I return from the grocery and see a beautiful little head sticking out over the Honda's steering wheel. Andy waves. I carry in groceries: broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, really pretty brussel sprouts, lots of greens, mushrooms, organic beef, chicken, and brie. Yum. I might eat it all for lunch. I start the beef browning. Grandmother's advice for spaghetti as the first meal seemed like a good one. I let the brie soften. I turn on the broiler for the sprouts. Andy kisses me from over my shoulder. He is going to work. I rush out to the car and say a little prayer. I turn the engine and keep the key pushed to the back of the column. It finally heaves a heavy cough. That is progress. I turn it again, conjuring up good Karma from that small baby that Turner and I tried to sooth for four hours on the plane. The Honda yells at me and is running. I gas it. Turner appears on the sidewalk. He says, "Yeah!" I return it to him. I gas it again. I know it was just tired of sitting. Great and majestic car that will undoubtedly (hear the optimism) return Andy home tonight without hassle.
I am back in the kitchen...I want to call it MY kitchen because the salt is in the familiar place, there are sun-dried tomatoes right where I left them, and sticky stains on the counters in all the right places (where we cut up apples, where Turner can reach on the bar, where olive oil collects under the glass bottle due to excessive use). I put the sprouts in the oven. Turner is drawing on his chalkboard and singing.
"Are you happy to have all your toys back, Buddy?"
"Yeah!" He says this with a loud exclamation point marked by a jump where he pulls his knees to his chest, opens his mouth wide, and shuts his eyes together tightly. I kiss his head and turn to the lazy susan. "Can we stay home awhile this time?"
I cross the kitchen. Swoop him into my arms and hug him. "Yes. We are home for awhile Buddy. I promise."
"Good." He struggles from my arms and returns to the large collection of trains littering the kitchen floor and table.
I return again to the cabinet to secure tomatoes. I am moving cans around and am lost in my search. Turner sneaks to my side. I know he is there only when he breaths into my ear. "Can you speak to me?" I smile and swoop him up again. He giggles.
"What do you want to speak about?"
He giggles and nuzzles his nose into my cheek. "I don't know."
"Do you want to build a tower?"
"Yeah." He wiggles from my arms again and starts pulling cans from the cabinet to assemble his tower. I continue my cooking. Turner is talking to the cans and encouraging the tower to stand tall, "Come on tower. You can do it." He builds one that is seven cans high. He builds many that refuse to listen to his motivating song.
While I eat my lunch I encourage Turner to go outside and enjoy the warm sun and temperature. He searches for his shoes while I begin this blog (about an hour ago). He yells down the stairs to share his frustration and inability to locate the shoes. I have no idea where anyones shoes are. I ask him to look in the bottom of the closet for his old crocs. He is quiet and I write. In a few moments he appears at my side in the kitchen holding a fishing game.
I smile and ask, "Where did you find that?"
"Under your bed." Very matter of fact.
"Why were you under my bed?"
"I was looking for my shoes."
"Are they normally under my bed?"
"No. But, look what I found. Is it from Santa?" It needs batteries. Major error on my part. I open the box and he plays with it, catching fish that aren't moving or opening their mouths. He and I fish wrestle. I get to hear that laugh over and over. It is addicting. I return to my writing. He returns outside because his fish "need some fresh air and sun too."
I am happy to see our favorite guy content in play alone, un-distracted by the TV. Our house is silent except the heavy breathing of a little boy pulling stickers from a board and putting them all over the kitchen floor, the click of these keys, and the sound of the wind outside the open kitchen window. I have a lot of work to do. Our living room looks like it threw up clean laundry all over the place. There is a six inch spot on the couch where one person can sit. The floor, tables, and other furniture are laden with folded clothes (I'm thankful they are folded). We can't open the front door more than a few inches because there are four suitcases in the floor in front of it; one of them is empty, so that is good. Our bedroom has two suitcases blocking the closet door. I dusted an inch or more of dust off the furniture upstairs after I showered. The kitchen floor is, as always, dirty with dust and Turner's lunch mess. The kitchen counters were cleaned while I cooked and the dishwasher was unloaded while I was at the grocery. I look down now and see stickers securing the dust to the kitchen floor and I am grateful. More grateful for family, love, creativity, intelligence, and health than I ever imagined. In the three weeks we have been home it became clear to me (many things did I suppose) that there is no way to explain how Andy and I could be where we are, doing what we are doing, raising such a precious and smart young man that we are without the foundation from which we came. There are pieces of Ci Ci in Turner when he looks at me and refuses to believe the tale I'm trying to tell him to pacify him. He can't be manipulated. I see Pa Pa in the way he is so conscious of other people's feelings (in Vegas a lady said we couldn't sit on one side of the restaurant because Turner was not 21. We left. As we walked around Turner said, "I'm sorry Mommy." I asked him why. "Cuz we couldn't sit where you wanted." I said, "That wasn't your fault buddy." "Yes it was." He looked crushed. We went back tot he restaurant and sat down anyway just to prove it to him.) He has, above all perhaps, the patience of La La that he chooses to exercise at all the correct times. Turner can laugh with his whole body like D. He can talk to anything and anyone and make friends as quickly as PK. He finds solace in solitude and books like me. He thinks like Andy--very sequentially, logically, and linearly--when he plays. He knows how to get his way like his Aunt Amy without really even trying to get it. He is good at being busy like Nanny. He enjoys snuggling with all the important people and can make anyone feel like the most special person in the world...a talent I have witnessed most at Grandmother's house. He is continually being crafted through the love of his family, and I thank you all for making time for us during Christmas break to help Turner make memories.
Turner and I drag our weariness through the Tucson airport. Our stroller is MIA. I am carrying a large, striped bag loaded with enough treats to get us through the Cold War; a little boy's backpack filled to the brim with a pillow, movies, and a variety of items intended to hold a little boy's attention on a very, very long plane ride; a little boy who is 3 foot 2 inches tall; a clutch that won't fit into the striped bag; and La La Bear. Turner walked from Terminal C to the first escalator. I prepare him: "Turner. Mommy has lots in my hands. You need to hold tightly to La La Bear and hold my hand with your left hand. We will take one big step and get on the moving stairs."
There are people rushing around us; three planes landed at the same time (which made the baggage situation as entertaining as the rest of our flight). He obliges. We get to the top of the escalator and Turner falls to his bottom about two paces before it. A large gentleman steps on my hand as I try to pull Turner to my hip. Another woman yells for those behind her to watch out for the kid as she (quite literally steps directly over Turner's head. Another person bumps into my stooped over body and almost sends me off balance into the moving stairs. A man in uniform helps me pull Turner to my hip. I am grateful and don't think I even say thank you. Just pull the tears back into my eyes as I take the stairs. I get to the bottom and Turner yells "Daddy." Thank goodness! I hand him Turner and try to readjust my agglomeration of stuff so I can hug my very friendly looking husband.
"How's it going Daddy?"
Andy laughs. "How's it going? Is that what you said?"
Turner laughs this time. "Yeah." They kiss. We kiss. We begin the unending wait for our luggage. It is closing in on midnight. Turner just had a breathing treatment. They-he and Andy-rush around the airport yelling and chasing. All the people who shared my flight smile in acknowledgement of the sweet, but very tired and sick little boy who is finally home with his Daddy again.
All the way from Nashville, Turner has been talking about his Santa present in the living room. Since we were away for Christmas, Santa delivered Turner's presents to an empty house again this year. But, this year Turner is old enough to remember and to be excited about what awaits him in the familiar living room. He bursts into the house searching. The bike that we (Andy and I) had hoped would be there couldn't be. It seems Santa needed some extra time to find that. So, there was some Thomas the train tracks to complete the wonderful things he received from all his Kentucky family. He demanded to play with it then. I took a few pictures and disappeared in a bathroom that was amazingly familiar with toothpaste on the mirror and little boy tub toys strewn across a cold tile floor. I come back relieved of my contact lenses and dirty face to find my boys spread onto the floor at 1 AM playing trains.
This morning I wake up to the familiar sound of feet stomping through the bathroom to Andy's side of the bed. It is not yet daylight. He climbs into our bed and is passive for a bit. Later I hear Andy take him downstairs to return him to his train. Andy returns to our bed. We listen to his very elaborate conversation and encouraging of Thomas: "You can do it Thomas. You can do it boy. Chug, chug. Go for it." We give up the warmth of being in our bed together again when I drift into the shower. Andy retreats to his train play.
I step out the front door to rush to the produce market and the organic market to get meat and vegetables. I can't wait to eat vegetables! The air blasts me in the face and I want to smile and sweat. It is a vastly different climate than the 19 degrees we left in Glasgow. The sun smooths over my cheeks and the 60 degree wind unsettles my barely dry hair. I stand on the sidewalk and am flooded with the realization that this is home now. I yell to Andy what a nice day it is. I see it in his smile that he also is realizing that this new "home" has many perks. Then the car won't start. My old car is a dedicated and honest vehicle that needed to show her discontent of being left all alone for more than two weeks. Andy hadn't started it since he returned. She was mad. I fiddle with her and move on.
I return from the grocery and see a beautiful little head sticking out over the Honda's steering wheel. Andy waves. I carry in groceries: broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, really pretty brussel sprouts, lots of greens, mushrooms, organic beef, chicken, and brie. Yum. I might eat it all for lunch. I start the beef browning. Grandmother's advice for spaghetti as the first meal seemed like a good one. I let the brie soften. I turn on the broiler for the sprouts. Andy kisses me from over my shoulder. He is going to work. I rush out to the car and say a little prayer. I turn the engine and keep the key pushed to the back of the column. It finally heaves a heavy cough. That is progress. I turn it again, conjuring up good Karma from that small baby that Turner and I tried to sooth for four hours on the plane. The Honda yells at me and is running. I gas it. Turner appears on the sidewalk. He says, "Yeah!" I return it to him. I gas it again. I know it was just tired of sitting. Great and majestic car that will undoubtedly (hear the optimism) return Andy home tonight without hassle.
I am back in the kitchen...I want to call it MY kitchen because the salt is in the familiar place, there are sun-dried tomatoes right where I left them, and sticky stains on the counters in all the right places (where we cut up apples, where Turner can reach on the bar, where olive oil collects under the glass bottle due to excessive use). I put the sprouts in the oven. Turner is drawing on his chalkboard and singing.
"Are you happy to have all your toys back, Buddy?"
"Yeah!" He says this with a loud exclamation point marked by a jump where he pulls his knees to his chest, opens his mouth wide, and shuts his eyes together tightly. I kiss his head and turn to the lazy susan. "Can we stay home awhile this time?"
I cross the kitchen. Swoop him into my arms and hug him. "Yes. We are home for awhile Buddy. I promise."
"Good." He struggles from my arms and returns to the large collection of trains littering the kitchen floor and table.
I return again to the cabinet to secure tomatoes. I am moving cans around and am lost in my search. Turner sneaks to my side. I know he is there only when he breaths into my ear. "Can you speak to me?" I smile and swoop him up again. He giggles.
"What do you want to speak about?"
He giggles and nuzzles his nose into my cheek. "I don't know."
"Do you want to build a tower?"
"Yeah." He wiggles from my arms again and starts pulling cans from the cabinet to assemble his tower. I continue my cooking. Turner is talking to the cans and encouraging the tower to stand tall, "Come on tower. You can do it." He builds one that is seven cans high. He builds many that refuse to listen to his motivating song.
While I eat my lunch I encourage Turner to go outside and enjoy the warm sun and temperature. He searches for his shoes while I begin this blog (about an hour ago). He yells down the stairs to share his frustration and inability to locate the shoes. I have no idea where anyones shoes are. I ask him to look in the bottom of the closet for his old crocs. He is quiet and I write. In a few moments he appears at my side in the kitchen holding a fishing game.
I smile and ask, "Where did you find that?"
"Under your bed." Very matter of fact.
"Why were you under my bed?"
"I was looking for my shoes."
"Are they normally under my bed?"
"No. But, look what I found. Is it from Santa?" It needs batteries. Major error on my part. I open the box and he plays with it, catching fish that aren't moving or opening their mouths. He and I fish wrestle. I get to hear that laugh over and over. It is addicting. I return to my writing. He returns outside because his fish "need some fresh air and sun too."
I am happy to see our favorite guy content in play alone, un-distracted by the TV. Our house is silent except the heavy breathing of a little boy pulling stickers from a board and putting them all over the kitchen floor, the click of these keys, and the sound of the wind outside the open kitchen window. I have a lot of work to do. Our living room looks like it threw up clean laundry all over the place. There is a six inch spot on the couch where one person can sit. The floor, tables, and other furniture are laden with folded clothes (I'm thankful they are folded). We can't open the front door more than a few inches because there are four suitcases in the floor in front of it; one of them is empty, so that is good. Our bedroom has two suitcases blocking the closet door. I dusted an inch or more of dust off the furniture upstairs after I showered. The kitchen floor is, as always, dirty with dust and Turner's lunch mess. The kitchen counters were cleaned while I cooked and the dishwasher was unloaded while I was at the grocery. I look down now and see stickers securing the dust to the kitchen floor and I am grateful. More grateful for family, love, creativity, intelligence, and health than I ever imagined. In the three weeks we have been home it became clear to me (many things did I suppose) that there is no way to explain how Andy and I could be where we are, doing what we are doing, raising such a precious and smart young man that we are without the foundation from which we came. There are pieces of Ci Ci in Turner when he looks at me and refuses to believe the tale I'm trying to tell him to pacify him. He can't be manipulated. I see Pa Pa in the way he is so conscious of other people's feelings (in Vegas a lady said we couldn't sit on one side of the restaurant because Turner was not 21. We left. As we walked around Turner said, "I'm sorry Mommy." I asked him why. "Cuz we couldn't sit where you wanted." I said, "That wasn't your fault buddy." "Yes it was." He looked crushed. We went back tot he restaurant and sat down anyway just to prove it to him.) He has, above all perhaps, the patience of La La that he chooses to exercise at all the correct times. Turner can laugh with his whole body like D. He can talk to anything and anyone and make friends as quickly as PK. He finds solace in solitude and books like me. He thinks like Andy--very sequentially, logically, and linearly--when he plays. He knows how to get his way like his Aunt Amy without really even trying to get it. He is good at being busy like Nanny. He enjoys snuggling with all the important people and can make anyone feel like the most special person in the world...a talent I have witnessed most at Grandmother's house. He is continually being crafted through the love of his family, and I thank you all for making time for us during Christmas break to help Turner make memories.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Sweet, Soft, and Oh So Special
We spent the night at Grandmother's last night. I try to put Turner to bed around 9 Glasgow time (8 on his clock). We are in bed about an hour, and he is still awake; I've been asleep twice, I think.
The first time he wakes me up, he puts his hand on my cheek and blows a little sweet air in my face (PK: Don't worry I brushed his teeth before bedtime so the breath really was sweet). The softness of his hand on my cheek doesn't wake me but the second gust of breath does. I thought the first was just a dream I suppose. As soon as I open my eyes, Turner's teeth show through his lips and he says, "I'm sleeping Mommy. Are you?"
The second time Turner is thrashing back and forth in the bed trying to get comfortable. He has probably drifted off to sleep and been brought back to the night somehow. He grunts. I pull my arm around him tighter and he flops over to face me again.
"Where's La La Bear?"
"At Cici's. I'll get shim tomorrow."
"But D should being it." Hmmm. I don't respond. He settles, but his eyes are still open. He puts his hand on my face. "I love you Mommy."
"I love you too Turner. You are so special. Let's close our eyes and go night night."
"Where's grandmudder?"
"She is sleeping I think."
"Oh." pause. "Is she watching my train?"
"I'm sure of it." He smiles. He closes his eyes and within a few moments his breath evens and I hear the familiar wheeze of Turner trying to breath while on his back. I roll him over so he can breath better and I snuggle in for a long winter's nap.
We wake up and it is about ten degrees outside. It is warm and toasty in Grandmother's bed, but it looks cold outside. Turner stirs in the bed for a few minutes before he sits up. He puts his hand on my face and asks me to wake up. I open my eyes and close them again slowly, wondering what time of morning it is. Turner puts his head on the pillow I am using and presses his nose to the tip of mine. "Good morning Mommy."
"Good morning Turner."
"Will you wake up now?"
I open my eyes. "I'm awake now."
"No, wake up."
"OK." We are quiet for a minute as I smell his morning breath and watch his lashes open and close.
"What did you dream 'bout Mommy?"
"I dreamt of home. You?"
"I dreamed about you."
"Really? What was I doing?"
"I don't know." He waits for a minute or more and kisses my nose. I kiss his nose.
"I love you Turner."
"I love you too Grandmudder Mommy." As though he all of a sudden remembers something he pops off the pillow, hops off the bed, and starts yelling "Grandmudder!" until she responds to him from her room. Thankfully she was already awake.
The first time he wakes me up, he puts his hand on my cheek and blows a little sweet air in my face (PK: Don't worry I brushed his teeth before bedtime so the breath really was sweet). The softness of his hand on my cheek doesn't wake me but the second gust of breath does. I thought the first was just a dream I suppose. As soon as I open my eyes, Turner's teeth show through his lips and he says, "I'm sleeping Mommy. Are you?"
The second time Turner is thrashing back and forth in the bed trying to get comfortable. He has probably drifted off to sleep and been brought back to the night somehow. He grunts. I pull my arm around him tighter and he flops over to face me again.
"Where's La La Bear?"
"At Cici's. I'll get shim tomorrow."
"But D should being it." Hmmm. I don't respond. He settles, but his eyes are still open. He puts his hand on my face. "I love you Mommy."
"I love you too Turner. You are so special. Let's close our eyes and go night night."
"Where's grandmudder?"
"She is sleeping I think."
"Oh." pause. "Is she watching my train?"
"I'm sure of it." He smiles. He closes his eyes and within a few moments his breath evens and I hear the familiar wheeze of Turner trying to breath while on his back. I roll him over so he can breath better and I snuggle in for a long winter's nap.
We wake up and it is about ten degrees outside. It is warm and toasty in Grandmother's bed, but it looks cold outside. Turner stirs in the bed for a few minutes before he sits up. He puts his hand on my face and asks me to wake up. I open my eyes and close them again slowly, wondering what time of morning it is. Turner puts his head on the pillow I am using and presses his nose to the tip of mine. "Good morning Mommy."
"Good morning Turner."
"Will you wake up now?"
I open my eyes. "I'm awake now."
"No, wake up."
"OK." We are quiet for a minute as I smell his morning breath and watch his lashes open and close.
"What did you dream 'bout Mommy?"
"I dreamt of home. You?"
"I dreamed about you."
"Really? What was I doing?"
"I don't know." He waits for a minute or more and kisses my nose. I kiss his nose.
"I love you Turner."
"I love you too Grandmudder Mommy." As though he all of a sudden remembers something he pops off the pillow, hops off the bed, and starts yelling "Grandmudder!" until she responds to him from her room. Thankfully she was already awake.
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