Turner and I are leaving the gas station. I just pulled from the pump (an uncomfortable economic exchange as you all know...republicans and their war!) and I stop at the stop sign in the Fry's (a.k.a. Kroger) parking lot. An older man in a motorized wheelchair slash scooter-thing is stopped at the sign across from me. As soon as I see him I think to myself, "What is this guy doing? A scooter as a car?" He gets the machine going and, to my astonishment, safely crosses through the intersection. I smile at him through a desert, dusty windshield as he putters past. Just as the round-in-the-middle-with-a-Texas-size-belt-buckle-an-inch-form-his-armpits-man makes it to the open vehicle windows on the left-hand side Turner loudly yells, "Hey! Hee can't do that. He can't ride that on the street!" The man does not hear him or, at least, he makes no comment as he motors by.
"Mommy. That guy can't do that because it's not safe. No, it's not safe to ride on the road on that thing." A minute or so later, we've pulled from the parking lot, and Turner resumes, " Mommy? Yeah. I get to ride my biek on the road because I'm the big kid, and I can pedal all the way. Yeah. And, I have a mommy with me and I pedal, pedal, pedal." His eyes scrunch up as I imagine he pictures me yelling, "Pedal, pedal, pedal" as I ran alongside his training wheels to cross Speedway earlier in the week.
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Turner is amazing me with his wonder-boy-bike routine. Over the speed bump. Back again. A circle very close to the dumpster. A whirl down the sidewalk with a little roundabout. A "whee" as he tries to tap my shoulder as he moves past me. I look to my notebook (I'm writing this blog) and he turns quiet. My eyes find him, intently looking to his feet and grunting with each push of the pedal. The pedal has fell off the left side. He pushes, quite unsuccessfully, with his tennis shoe the nub where a pedal once was. The pedal is gripped in his armpit. I move to replace the pedal as best I can (fourth time since Sunday; I need to break down and get the wrench). As I turn the small nut slowly Turner watches with intent and reflects, "That's hard for little boys. But I'm gettin' bigger because I can ride my bike." "Yep, you are big buddy. Just sometimes boys, any boy, wants help from the Mommy." "Yeah," eyes closed, deep in nod, "Yeah, they do."
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Post chocolate cake (yes, another one), chicken nuggest ("just like La, La"), mac and cheese and, surprisingly a continued favorite, broccoli, Turner is taking us minature golfing. The first place is closed. The second place was not busy, expensive, and quite aesthetically diverse...all the markers of a GREAT place to spend your third birthday. The windmill was the favorite. Four rounds on that hole. Turner played a great game. He even, perhaps, beat one if not both of his parents. As we near the end, he passes by me and near-whispers, "Thank you Mommy. I like golfing." I smile, of course. Andy finishes his putt and we finally make it, over an hour later, to the last hole. It is well past bedtime. Mid-yawn (mine, not his) Turner asks Andy, "Did you have fun Daddy? Did you have fun golfing? Did you?" "Yes Turner. I did. Did you?" "Yeah Daddy. I did. Did you have fun golfing Mommy?" "Yeah Turner, I did. Did you?" "Yeah." And it was the kind of yeah that trailed off while he nodded his head, eyes closed.
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