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.