You'll understand...someday

When oh when did I become my dad? Not that I am not happy to aspire to such a model of humanity, but seriously I do hear his voice in my mouth almost every single day. I remember an uncomfortable conversation once in my very young years where I was crying over something. The first time in my life, my father turned on his heals and walked away from me. It was the moment when he decided I was too old to get what I wanted by acting like a spoiled Daddy's girl. Yes, this moment happened much too late. Yes, it was difficult to deal with. Yes, I'm glad it happened (at least now). Turner's moment (or at least one of them) happened this morning. This past week or two has been marked with bad reports from school, back talk at home, and, oh my goodness, have we mentioned the whining? It is a stage. It is temporary. I don't care how much you tell yourself that, it does not increase your level of sanity or rational thinking at 8 AM when you try desperately to get the little guy from bed to shower to clothes to breakfast to the front door to truck and then to school in ONE hour. Should I get up at 5 AM and start my day? Yes. Will I ever be able to do this? Negative. Like I said, I'm my dad not my mom.

We are up and moving at 7:30. It is a good start to the day. I get in the shower and, somehow, convince Turner to take a shower with me (he is fairly adamant about hour-long baths with rocket and paint and bubbles and no hair washing). We negotiate the washing of hair (he wins) and I get him dressed. He is rewarded (for taking the shower and not the bath) by getting to watch some PBS while I dry my hair and slap on some teacher clothes. Breakfast for Turner - two bowls of like-Corn Flakes - while I pack my lunch. I rinse some nastiness from the sink from baking a turkey on Monday, stuff a bag of potato chips in a shopping sack (it becomes my breakfast two hours later when I realize I never fed myself this morning), and rush Turner toward the front door. He has his car - the special treat from last weekend - and is running it down the wall. I ask him to stop while I cram schoolbooks, lesson plans, and my flashdrive into my satchel. I hear the car and Turner's "vroom" all over the wall. He nudges our painting - you know the one, THE one really, really nice piece of art in our house. I remind him that cars go on the ground not the wall. He laughs at me. I am not teasing. I tell him cars go on the ground and he looks in my direction and cackles the loud, awkward laugh he does when he is trying to be funny or draw attention to himself. "Turner, that was your last warning. If you put your car on the wall again, I will take it from you and you will not be allowed to take it to school." He says, "Ohhhh Mannn!" I get his jacket. I turn around. He has his car on the wall and is watching me with a grin. I take the car. He slams himself into the wall and starts crying. I grab my bag, I grab the trash bag, I grab Turner's jacket, I grab my lunch, I grab my gym clothes, and I grab my keys. I walk out the door and toward the truck. In about forty-five nanoseconds Turner is on my heals crying. "Don't leave me." I come to his level. "I will never, ever leave you. But, when you whine and cry after not listening to Mommy, I am upset and need some space from Turner." "I'm sorry Mommy. Don't need space from me." Oh, there is the boy I know.

Wednesday night
The first years hosted a new graduate student orientation starting on Tuesday and going until Thursday. The idea is to woo the students who are accepted to the program for next year. The faculty take us all out to dinner and drinks. Andy and Turner go to the gym and come pick me up an hour later. Turner is in totally different clothes (for a reason we still don't know) than the outfit I sent him off in. He looks like a hobo kid with green corduroy pants that are much too big, a Cardinal jacket, and a gray shirt with orange armbands. And, don't forget his hat and his new sunglasses. He gets up on stage (it is a small Spanish restaurant with a stage for Tango on the weekend). Turner starts dancing like the chick from SNL. His arms are flailing around. His butt is shaking. His feet pick up from the floor and stomp back down occasionally. He closes his eyes. He squeals. He laughs at himself. He asks, "Watching me?" In these moments I also feel like my dad because I sit, mouth perched in smile, and wonder how such a miracle could ever happen to me.