Dreaming a Dream that Will Come True

There are things that happen in our lives that seem almost fabricated because they are so unreal or unexplainable. Here is my story. It is true. Or, at least, as true as is possible because, according to Isocrates, there is no "real" truth and when we add the complication of one's memory we are even further distanced from "truth" much less "real" anything. 

I bike to Turner's school today to retrieve him. I took the bus home after class last night and found it non-threatening, cheap, easy, and efficient. I'm sold! Mass transit saves me gas money and the possibility of getting into a car accident, not to mention the extra time for reading school work and contemplating life with Turner. 

I walk into the trike yard and spot Turner. He is sitting on a trike in his usual garb: Dr. Patrick sunglasses and Riverbats hat. 

"Are we going on the bus now?"

"What?" I'm surprised because I have not mentioned to him that I have ridden the bus nor spoke to him of the possibility of him riding the bus.

"Are we going on the bus now?" He asks again.

Ms. Carolyn joins in, "Yes. He's been talking about it all day."

"Really?" I turn to Turner. "Why do you think you are getting to ride the bus today?"

"Because I dreamed it last night." He rides off on his trike and circles back to me. I am quiet.

"I told him I ride the bus sometimes," offers Ms. Carolyn. "He seemed so excited. Is he not getting to ride the bus?"

"No, I mean yes he is, but he has no way of knowing that. We've never done it before. We haven't talked about it months. I just decided on a whim last night to take the bus home from school. I was scared I guess. I thought it would be difficult. Now, I know it is so easy."

"It is so easy."

"Yes. So I got this big idea to take Turner on it today. I really never mentioned it to him. He said he dreamed about it."

"Weird."

"Yes." I don't tell her this has happened before. Turner and I have the same dreams often. He had the dream about La La too, just a little different version and a week later.

So, Turner and I get out of school (after a thirty minute play time in the trike yard with all the young 'uns). We walk to the bus stop (right around the corner from Turner's school). When it comes I haul my bike onto the bike rack while Turner patiently waits on the sidewalk. I help him up the big stairs. I slide my bus pass (thanks to Crystal). I tell the driver Turner is three.

"Uh, yeah right lady. He's at least four."

"Turner, how old are you?"

"Three." He is already walking down the aisle to find a seat.

"I promise, he's just three. He won't be four until April. He is just tall I guess."

"Yeah, I guess," obviously not believing me. 

Turner grabs us a seat and he asks a series of questions about everything: Why are these people on here? Why is the bus so full? Where is everyone's cars? What is that sign for? How fast will the bus go? Can I pull the string now? Can I pull the string now? Can I pull the string now?

We pass the ten minute ride with stories and an elaborate question and answer session that does not intrigue the lady across the aisle from us who is trying to do her crossword puzzle. Our stop comes up, or the stop that I think is ours, and I tell Turner to pull the string. "Stop requested." 

Turner smiles. "I did that huh?" 

"Yes sir."

We step off the bus. I retrieve my bike. We start the trek to the house (a longer walk now that I had Turner pull the string a stop early). We make it home nonetheless to a tune of "I wanted to ride the bus longer. When will we ride it again? I loved riding the bus Mom. What a great dream come true."

What I will be when I grow up

There are times, I'm sure, when parents get a glimpse into the future of their little ones. Perhaps it is a false glimpse or, perhaps, it is a glimpse that will be long forgotten until that moment in his childhood is realized in adulthood. Tonight I think I saw something in Turner's future. It may never happen. I may be making more out of it than it is. At the very least, I was amazed and was not alone in my awe of him.

I pick Turner up at 2. He is on his mat beside the door. He and Ms. Carolyn share a look. Apparently Turner told her earlier in the day that I would pick him up during nap time. We had not discussed this previously. We come home and we both take a two hour nap. Andy calls and wakes me up 30 minutes before I am forced to rouse Turner to wakefulness. In this time, I prepare a snack and a goody bag to accompany us to the "magician's house." At 5 we rush off to the Anderson's home so I can tutor the magician while Turner plays wii, pinball, and watches PBS on a TV as big as our entire living room. An hour later, we are wandering around in Bookman's (the local, used bookstore that is the size of Barnes & Noble). 

We get to the children's room, which is comfortable with big, cushy chairs, kid-size tables and chairs, huge posters of book covers towering over the endless supply of books. Turner runs into the room and sees, first thing, Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree that is four feet tall and hanging on the wall. "I have that book. That tree book is just like mine." We nose around the books, Turner honing in on the religious section. He hands me a very large book that has Noah's ark on the front. Inside there are pictures, but only a few. Instead, there are lots and lots of words. Paragraphs of words that create the Biblical story with richness and candor. Turner seats himself on the carpet and starts reading. While he is telling the story, I select stacks of books for him to select from. I locate dinosaur books, one turtle book, a rhyming book (by the same author as my favorite LaLa book), something about Kindergarten, a folklore book, a Native American book, and a book about Africa. After fifteen minutes or so, I look over and Turner is still seated with his "boat" book, but he has an audience (a pregnant woman and another child that is not with the pregnant woman). 

I sit at the table to listen as he tells the most elaborate tale of a "big boat" with "lots of rain" and a "very special man" who "could talk to animals and could make them feel comfortable." These animals followed Noah onto the boat "because they trusted him and his sponsibilities." "There were lots of kinds of animals. Big ones. Little ones. Smart ones. Lions. Cats. Some dogs. Not many." "So, anyway, the animals get on the boat and they are happy. Then they get unhappy. They kind of fight. Not fight fight but the fight like brothers can do sometimes like Noah and his brother who fights sometimes. Nobody hurts nobody. They use words only." And, these fighting animals get impatient with one another and start pushing a bit. "Well, that made the boat rock and rock and the smart man who spoke to the animals said, 'Stop it.' And, well they did." He reads this story to us for another couple of minutes. During this time, a few of the staff members of the store have spread the word and are huddled by the door listening to the master storyteller. He never looks up at any of us: me in the distance, the other child seated in the floor, the workers hiding behind the bookshelves, the pregnant woman holding her stomach and giggling from Turner's left. When Turner decides to finish his story he says, "And then the rains stopped. The animals walked and crawled and jumped off the big boat and..." he looks up. Turns his head around in my direction. I smile. He smiles and looks a bit sheepish. "...and, well, The End." 

He brings me the book. We select the ones he wants to take home (six in all) and I grab the "boat" book. He says, "No Mom. I already read all of that one." 

We purchase his books and play again with the "tick tock clock." We touch the world at the front of the store. As we are readying ourselves to leave, Turner announces he must use the bathroom. The gentleman behind the counter stores all my stuff so I don't have to deal with it in the potty. We return to it and there is a whole counter of workers standing there. They all, in unison, tell him goodbye. He diverts his eyes to the floor and waves at the audience. 

I say, "He's a real storyteller." 

One woman says, "I've never seen anything like that before. How old is he?" 

"Three." 

She laughs. "There is no way. Does he really know how to read?" 

"Were you convinced?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, then that is all that matters I suppose." As I write this I am watching John McCain promise more than he ever intends to deliver (or more than any rational person could ever believe is more than simple rhetorical positioning) and I am ever-aware of Turner's political genes. Perhaps he can't read yet...he is only three. Yet, he knows how to captivate an audience and has mastered the dying art of oral narrative. I only wish I could repeat the entire story verbatim. It really was interesting and well-thought. 

Ooey Gooey Cookies

I go to have snack with Turner yesterday at school. I will simply relay the conversations I had from the time I stepped out of the car until I got to Turner in the cafeteria.

Marsala, his previous teacher in the 2year old room, is carrying laundry out the front door. She sees me and waves a big wave. "Hey there. I hear you have some cookies for me."

"I do?"

"Yeah. Turner came running up to me today in the trike yard and said I was special and that he made cookies for me."

"Oh really."

She laughs. "Yep. I asked him where they were. He said they were at home. I told him I couldn't eat them if they were at his home. He said, 'Yeah, well my Mommy is bringing them. That's her sponsibility'."

I laugh. "Yeah. We made cookies for the UK/UofL game. I'll bake a few and bring tomorrow."

"Yum. He said they were nothing but butter."

"That's pretty true."

I walk into the school and meet Dave, the director's husband who does desk duty in the afternoons.

"Hey there Amanda. How are you?"

"Great Dave."

"I hear you have some cookies for me."

"Yeah, I'm hearing something about that too."

He laughs. "Turner came running up to me as soon as he saw me today and said that his mommy had made me gooey cookies that are best 'fresh out of the oven'."

"Well, I prefer to have them fresh from the oven. Marsala said he offered her some too."

"Yeah. I think he's been spreading the love around today."

"What else is new? I'll try to bake a few and bring them in."

"Normally I would say don't bother but he really said they were wonderful and that he thought of all his school friends while he was making them. So, I think I'll take you up on the offer for some."

"OK." Let's see, when will I have time to bake them...

I step into the cafeteria.

"Mommy!"

"Hey Turner. Have you had a great day?"

"I took a nap today." I offer accolade that goes on too long I'm sure. "I told Ms. Marsala and Ms. Becky and Mr. Dave and Ms. Jo and Ms. Carolyn and Ms. Peggy all about your cookies. And all my friends want some too."

"well, I don't know if we have enough to share with everybody, but we'll make some and bring them tomorrow."

He puts on his pouty face. "But I promised them. I can't tell them something like that. It's not nice." Yes, of course, it isn't. Of course.

"We'll work on it, OK."

I am now baking, writing, and getting in the shower so I can pick him up in fifteen minutes. I can get two batches done then, right? That will passify the adults and we'll work on kids tomorrow.

The Bike Wreck

Any of you who have read Facebook or have chatted with me in the past few days know I have been sick...I mean sick sick. Whew, my body refuses to recover no matter what I do. By yesterday night I was not only sick and tired, I was sick of being sick and tired. In typical denial fashion I decided some exercise would make me feel better (at least I knew it would make my joints feel better). So, I ask Turner if he wants to go to the park to play baseball. He is game. We get there and he wants to ride his bike instead. It is 6:30, we've already had dinner, night falls quickly but the bike path is well-lit. So, we go for it.

Turner's bike is not the nicest and, unfortunately, it has a pedal problem. The problem being...the pedals won't stay screwed into the thing that connects them to the bike. I think I posted about this before. Anyway, Chiara tried to fix it when she was here but it didn't work. So now the goopy stuff she used to glue the pedals on makes screwing them back in more difficult although it does prevent the pedals from falling off as frequently. 

We are at the park. I am trying to jog beside Turner. He is singing as he rides (fairly typical). Just as he gets to the loud part of the song, his pedal comes off. He is really pumping his little legs keeping our pace fast. One large push on the right foot and the pedal falls off. His foot hits the ground. His handlebars swerve to the side. His front wheel follows and before I can catch him his helmet thuds on the concrete after his knees scrape the black and unforgiving ground. A lady a few feet back screams. There is a moment of silence. Then a deep breath. I bend to Turner and he looks up. Then he grabs his knees and cries. I scoop him up and then I sit down on the side of the path with him. He is puffing hard and breathing in big gulps. The lady who screamed and her male friend pick up Turner's bike. The man says, "Oh. I see the problem. The pedal fell off." The lady says, "I use to ride a bike but my pants always got stuck in the chain." I think, "Why don't you wear shorts then?" Turner says, "Mom. I crashed my bike." I hug him and say, "You sure did buddy." He whimpers a bit.

"Are you okay?"

"I think so. I have big boo boos now don't I?" I inspect his knees. They look barely scratched. I really and very surprised. If you only could have seen the wipe out. It was scary.

"When we get home we'll put some medicine and a band aid on them."

"Okay." We sit there awhile watching the helpful male friend of the screaming, pant stuck in chair lady as he tries desperately to fix Turner's bike. Finally, I absolve him of responsibility and say, "It is really tricky. Let me try." I fix his wheel. They walk on. I sit Turner's bike up. He stands beside it and puts his helmet on. 

"Are you ready to go home?"

"No Mom. I can make it. I am big enough to take that kind of crash. I can keep going."

"Ok. We have a long way and it is fine with Mommy if we go back. That was a bad wreck and you don't have to be so tough on my behalf."

He pulls my pants and says, "Look at me" just like I require him to do when he is in trouble. "I can do it Mommy." Well, enough said.

About fifteen minutes around the park (it is a three mile trek) Turner's wheel falls off again, but there is no crash. Two more pedals incidents and we find ourself in the dark part of the path next to the pond (and mosquitos). I feel sick. Really sick. I bend to the side and Turner yells for me that his pedal has fell off again. I finish being sick (quite thankful that NO ONE is near except us). I fix his pedal. On the 22nd street side of the park we pass the couple who tried to help us earlier. They cheer as we pass and Turner starts singing, "And we come round the bend. The Lightning Turner and his Mommy. We are riding and riding and racing. The people say hi. They scream for us. We pass them. We leave them. Her pants are stuck in the bike but we keep going and going and racing and running and faaaaast!" 

I stop another time to be sick. When we get to the car Turner says, "Mommy. You don't feel well do you?"

"No Turner I don't. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I don't feel well either. My crash marks hurt."

We go home, brush our teeth, wash our faces, and both of us are in bed before 9 PM. I am asleep first and wake up to Turner's nose pushed under my chin, his face resting on my chest, and his hands rubbing my cheek. "Mommy?" I groan or make some other indecipherable, half-asleep noise. "Sleeping with me will make you feel better." And, well, I guess it did.