We all knew it! He really is fantabulous.

I started work at Turner's school yesterday. Yes, I know, I have enough going on but something devastating happened to our money tree and airfare only increases in price everyday. So, I'm doing something I can and that is getting paid to hang out at Turner's school and act goofy with little kids. It is good for my spirit, although it makes me sadly face how desperately I want more children. 

Yesterday I get to work, sweaty from running blocks and blocks from school in not running but teaching shoes, a pencil skirt, and earrings that kept slapping me in the eye. I am directed into the infant room (great! Diapers and snotty noses). I'd already listened to undergraduate seniors cry and whine all morning begging to get into my class. I somehow get my crochety self on the floor while maintaing some modesty with a skirt. I sing songs. I tell stories. I stuff animals inside a bug catcher. I pull them out. I yell "hurrah" about one thousand times and says "awesome" more than I want to admit. I learn all the children's names. I throw sand. I bury my feet. I bury Gabe's feet. I pat a baby doll and change a diaper and feed snacks and wipe up messes and pour water and say over and over, "good job." I smile a lot. I wipe noses (I ALWAYS hated it when I picked up Turner and his nose was runny). I wipe a lot of noses (what is it, PK, with toddlers and their runny noses?). I dance with abandon in the sand yard while the kids laugh, take turns joining in and the other teachers look on. At 5, an hour before my out-time, the last child leaves. We get paid until 6 so I go to Turner's room. I read him a story. I hear about his day. I convince him - finally - to head home. I tell him about my day at his school. He confesses that he and Tristan saw me through the window with the "babies, but they all knew you were my Mommy so that's OK."

As I am signing Turner out into my care and signing out the employee log sheet, the director sits before me and asks, "How was it?"

"Great."

The other teacher arrives. Then another. Within a few moments they all have been at the desk to tell me the same two things: First, they are surprised that I seemed to speak and act and respond in all the ways that child psychology says is most beneficial for kids. Second, to tell me that Turner is a marker of kid health and intelligence and that reading the books really did work. 

I tell Turner about all the compliments as we drive home.

"Although you weren't quiet at nap time today [!], your teachers all think you are pretty spectacular. What do you think of that?"

"I think that is right."

"Oh yeah. Well, I agree."

"Yeah."

"Why are you so special?"

"Because I just am."

"Do you try really hard to be so special?"

"Yes. I do. Yeah I really do."

"Well, it's working. You are so special and so smart."

"Yeah. I am."

"I am so proud of you when you are the good boy Turner. I love to hear your teachers say nice things about you."

"They say nice things about you too."

"Really? Well that is nice."

"Yeah. Ms. Carolyn says you are fabulous."

"Well, I think you are FANtabulous too."

"That's not real Mom."

"Anything can be real if you think about it long enough."

"Oh."

"Well, maybe not anything. But I really do think you are fantabulous. You and Mommy just need to figure out what that means."

"Oh. Well..." he thinks. A block away. "I think it means that I don't have to take a nap at home anymore."

Peppery Spice and all that is nice.

At 4 Turner takes the long sigh that sounds like his lungs are totally emptying themselves. It means he is lost in slumber. I enjoy watching him for far too long (given that school started yesterday). It seems like there is a loud noise outside and I look over Turner's silent body at the clock. It says 5:10. I get up and wander to my computer. In less than twenty minutes Turner is snuggled against me as I read him my homework and he asks me what words mean. 

Although I am dressed for the gym, the two of us decide to make dinner. I start pulling things from the freezer and fridge as he eats a granola bar, drinks milk, feeds fish, flies his airplane, and tells me about the spaceship at school. I broil brussels sprouts (I know Jack, they're your favorite) and tilapia (fresh - and boy it was worth the extra dollar), boil some pasta, whip up a little pesto, sun dried tomatoes, and mushrooms, slice carrots (crunchy for Turner), and sliver almonds. 

The fish has "stuff" on it that Turner does not care for. Thankfully I am aware of his genetic predisposition (on both sides, thank you very much) for finicky eating. I make him a special fish that is free of stuff. There is, of course, a little pepper on it because, as always, good mom ideas seem to emerge a tinsy bit too late. His fish is plain on one side and minimally peppery on the other. I put it on his plate plain side up. I hope he doesn't notice. One bite in he flips it over. He looks at me. He moves his nose high up in the air and says, "Mom. This is spicy with pepper."

I brush the pepper off. I turn the fish back over. I hand it back to him. He is not convinced. I should rewind a bit and tell you that he spent the first five minutes of dinner complaining about all that was in front of him (the new habit). My response - whether good or bad - is to take his plate and drink away and tell him he isn't required to eat. Now, with Andy as a child this probably would have been his delight. Turner, however, doesn't want to be left out of dinner and enjoys eating as much as I do. Therefore, he asks for his food back. I return to him his plate with the advice that he should eat what he wants, leave the rest, and stop complaining.

That is when he turns the fish over and sees the pepper. 

Once his fish is pepper free (or more free-ish), he gobbles up the entire filet on his plate. We discuss where it originated (pond, ocean, river). He eats a carrot and is surprised to find it crunchy as he likes. He smiles. "Mom. You make the greatest fish ever." And then, moments later, "Mom. This is sooo yummy. I love it." 

"Because I like them that way..."

Turner has a new answer for everything. Surprisingly, or maybe not so much, it is also an answer I frequently provide after several rounds of "real" answers do not quiet the "Why?" Most days this week he has come home from school with his underwear backwards. He leaves for school with them the appropriate way, but turns them around at some point (in privacy) at school. The first day (last Thursday) I asked who changed his underwear, mistaking Ramone on his front side as different underwear than the ones he left in. He explained to me that he liked to have them a different way and that when he went to the bathroom at school he decided to change them around. The next day it was much the same story. Tuesday I asked him to turn them around because he couldn't keep pulling the front side out of his backside. I tried to ask him why he wanted to wear them that way if they were so uncomfortable, as indicated by the constant digging motions. He smiled and said, "But they are comdfordable this way." Ok. This morning he gets clean and I ask him to pick out a pair of underwear and put them on. He returns to the bathroom with LIghtnight McQueen spread across his backside, but the underwear are inside out. I smile.
"Why do you have your underwear on inside out?"
He is puzzled. I explain what inside out means. He turns around and around in the bathroom like a kid checking out his tail and then looks up to me. Serious and calm he says, "Well." long paus. "Because I like them that way. That way Lightning can see what's going on in there." Ok.

A Fine Line in Pooting

Turner woke up from his nap on Saturday just as naked as he fell asleep (he was insistent and I didn't really know how to explain to him that sleeping naked was unusual for little boys without implying a "normal" way to sleep as a little boy). I am rubbing his back and listening to him tell me about a dream. He gets quiet for a second. I hear a noise. He resumes talking. I interrupt him, "Turner. Where are your manners?"

"What?" He really looks surprised.

"I heard you toot. What do you say?"

"I didn't poot Mommy. That was just air coming out of my bottom."

"And how is that different than tooting?"

"Because it doesn't make a noise."

"But I heard it. If it doesn't make a noise, then how did I know you had done it?"

He giggles. "Yeah. Only Mommy's can hear that. Other people won't." 

"Can you hear it?"

He looks at me like I am trying to trick him. "It's MY bottom Mommy. Sure I hear it."

'membering my rules...

Context: Turner got in trouble at school yesterday. He hasn't been taking naps off and on this week (or the past two for that matter). This week, instead of resting quietly during nap time, he has been trying to draw attention to himself. Yesterday he giggled until he was put into time out, at which point he did some things we'll just call ugly. He was removed from the classroom. I kept him home with me today so we could get back to remembering what our rules are and why. I figured Turner just needed some extra attention to help him remember how rewarding minding our manners can be. 

Story: 

Turner is up around 6-ish. We get into the shower and get clean. We go to Trader Joe's to buy a few things so we can get some cash back (it is about four blocks closer than the bank and we needed mushrooms anyway) because, as we learned yesterday, the barbershop only takes cash. Trader joe's has Turner-size carts that he loves to push. We get mushrooms and pizza crust and a $4 bottle of wine (they really aren't so bad). I ask Turner at several points to remember his manners. He slams into my feet several times and I ask him to stop. Long story short, before we leave Trader Joe's Turner has pushed his little cart across the checkout lanes while doing the screaming whine that has become much too familiar. One mother looks at me (her little girl quietly standing behind a cart and her other baby sleeping in a sling). Her first glance was understanding. After Turner puts his cart away (that was the whole instigator to the yelling whine), he comes around the corner and starts screaming that he wants his sucker (a bribe for doing well at the barbershop, which we haven't even gotten to yet). The mother glances at me again. Another lane opens, I go to it. Turner follows, not before spitting in exasperation. The salesclerk is quite expeditious and I take Turner to the front porch of the store for a time out. He refuses and the yelling persists. The poor old man trying to sit three tables down from us says something encouraging to me as I carry a wiggling, screaming Turner and our groceries to the car. We sit in time out silence in the 4000 degree heat while our little, black car tries desperately to combat the desert.

Five minutes later, after we finish our car meditation, I ask Turner if he remembers why he is home with me today.

"Cuz I didn't follow the rules at school."

"Exactly. Did you follow the rules in the grocery?"

"No."

We are ready for his haircut. We get there and the place is empty 

but somehow we have a 40 minute wait for his haircut. So, not only do they not accept cash, but you are allowed to check in and leave and return at a specific time. It is like dinner reservations.

In the 40 minutes we wait, I sit on the floor (yes, me, floor, public place) and we play with Monsters, a dump truck, magazines, and air hockey (also a very cool thing about the barbershop). Turner gets his hair cut.  We go to the grocery to finish our shopping. He is very good most of the ride. It is the grocery so he does get his cookie (instead of the sucker because he was perfect at the barbershop). As we come to the checkout lane, he starts whining for a juicebox. I tell him I am thinking about it and while I think he must think about how it is he wants to act. He agrees.

He rides his bike while I unload groceries. I start putting them away as he rides to the end of the sidewalk and back, each time at our door yelling in to me how many feet his black mark is (my way of keeping a check on him). He comes in dripping with sweat and unable to get his helmet off. He starts demanding the juicebox. I don't say anything; I just pretend to not have heard him. He clings his body to my leg and says, "I know Mom. I need to be 'membering my manners." I give him the juicebox. He takes a nap today (1:30 - 4:40). He wakes up and demands something from the top of the stairs. I walk to the stairs and ask, "Is that how we ask for things?"

"No. Sorry Mommy. I 'member now." And, then he asks using his manners.

Maybe tomorrow we'll actually make it to get his pictures taken, which was the reasoning behind the haircut this morning.