Decaved.

Today is, as all days, one of good fortune (when you look in the right spots).
At two minutes before 10 this morning, I was shoving cheese in a bag for lunch. Searching for another quick lunch option was futile, and I had a parade to attend. I arrive at the parade just as the dragon danced his way through the church doors. I caught up with them in the church office and when Turner saw me, his whole face reminded me how appreciated I am. I can't capture it in words; I just hope I showed it to my mom a few times when I was young. I followed him and his hand partner (Noah) around Catalina as Turner told me over and over, "I love you Mom." One of the many strong qualities of Turner is his desire to express himself; I never tire of hearing it either.
While the dragon, masked Pre-K, and those with ox head-gear (Turner's class) worked their way down the sidewalk toward the library, I found myself standing beside Ginger's dad. He shares his trials of being a single-parent (Ginger's mom got a gig singing professional opera for a show that lasts six weeks. She is finishing up in two weeks. Ginger's dad is NOT happy, apparently, about how awful he finds having to do all the work of parenting. I am less than amused to be sympathetic to him. Yet, I am compelled to be polite and nod. Ginger's dad, by the way, is a huge talker and Andy and I often joke about being trapped by him.) As the children are winding back toward the school, Ginger's dad says Ginger still talks of Turner nearly everyday. She is, he said, quite matter of fact about Turner's role as boyfriend in her life. We laughed over how they just seemed to choose one another and latch onto the ideal of partnerships. I said that Turner had been indoctrinated to only be attracted to liberal women. Ginger's dad laughed and said, "Yes. And we hope she doesn't marry anyone from Texas." Hmmm. Sounds a bit familiar . . .
I return to Catalina several hours later and find Turner in the sand yard. He has taken a nap and is eager to tell me he gets something "special" today as he leaves. Sure enough, on the corner of the desk by the front door is a big box of fortune cookies. We each select one and open them in the car. Turner's said, very appropriately, "You are loved, and you proclaim your love to everyone."
I love fortune cookies. As we finished ours off, Turner asked, "Was your fortune cookie yummy?"
"Yes it was. I wish I had another one."
"Well, maybe when it is Chinese again you can have one. And maybe I can have one too."
A few moments later, we are talking about the parade. I am trying to draw connections between Chinese new year as an event and Chinese as a culture. Turner, however, is most interested in telling me a long story about Ms. Christy. Then he offers some gossip about Noah.
"Thank you for inviting me to your parade today. Did you have fun?"
"Yeah. I did." I tell him some things that were my favorites. I explain Chandler's mask - which was made by his mother who is Chinese and born in the year of the dog - and offer accolade for the nice job Erin did as the dragon head. "So, anyway, thank you for inviting me. I like when you share your school with me."
"Well, I really didn't invite you. Daddy invited you."
"Oh..." He cuts me off.
"I mean Daddy and I invited you." I am proud of the proper position of his pronoun.
"Oh. Well. I was glad to be invited and glad to be there."
A few hours later, he is seated on the counter helping me cook dinner and eating "shark salmon patty cakes," "crunchy broccoli," and almonds. There is an apple on the counter that is past the point where it will be eaten but not yet to the point where I want to toss it out. Turner rolls it around and says, "Do you know about decave?"
"What?"
"On the Science Kid this morning they were talking about decave."
"OK. So explain it to me."
"Well." He looks at the apple with intensity. "It is when things get smaller and kinda melt inside itself."
"That's interesting." I grab a piece of paper to jot down the word so I can remember to blog about it later [only to not be able to find that piece of paper right now].
"Yeah. I got to watch PBS before school. And when PBS goes off sometimes my dad can find new PBS."
"Really? That's neat."
"Yeah." Long pause. "You should throw this in the trash mom. It is decaved."
"You're right. Throw it away." He does. Then he looks to me and grins as though he has orchestrated a secret conspiracy against the apple and succeeded.

Oh the stories he will tell. Mexico.

Yesterday, Turner and I got to the beach a quarter to 10. We left, begrudgingly, at 2:30, headed to our casita, showered (Turner for nearly 30 minutes), and got on the road to home. Here are some stories that Turner told - first, to Chiara, then to D, and then to Andy. I figure since they are the most memorable ones to Turner, then I should share my version with everyone. MY favorite part of the day, was the nearly two hours Turner sat close to me on the blanket and bounced back and forth from fishing out of our make-believe red boat and practicing storytelling with me about the seagulls. I would start, he would add, then I would add, then he would add. There were three seagulls and their names were Clarence [nickname Poopy Head], Socko, and Shishoo..

1. The Dead Horse. As we were leaving the taco shop on Saturday, we passed a horse that was tied up and looked pretty sad. I didn't point him out to Turner, but I thought how awful his life must be. He really looked neglected. His home was a sandy space between the taco stand and some small condos lining the beach. On Sunday, as we left the beach, we passed the horse again. This time, he was laying on the ground. I pointed him out to Turner and said how sad it was that the horse wasn't being taken care of. He said, "Yeah. And Mom, look. He's laying in his own poop." Indeed he was. I say, "Most of the time when horses look like that, it isn't good. He might be dying. His owner isn't taking care of him." After several minutes of watching the horse be still, then thrash, then be still we left him. He heaved a huge gust of air from his lungs and I wanted to cry. I am NOT an animal person, you all know. And, I lack empathy for most big animals, such as horses. Yet, this horse's life seemed so miserable and awful that no one could overlook such sadness. When Turner talks to Chiara and then to D he tells them he saw a dead horse.

2. The Ranned Away Crab. A gentleman approached us just as I spread our blanket flat early Sunday morning. "You guys want to keep this?" I look at it. He says one of the things is poisonous. I don't look very closely, but accept the gift. Inside the shell are some long arms/legs that are green. It looks like a small octopus. I think the guy said it was squid but that didn't seem right. Anyway, I sat the shell down in front of me (convinced that what was inside was long ago dead). My feet mess around in the sand as I watch Turner climb rocks. He is trying "desperately" to keep his Light Up Lightning McQueen shoes dry. There was about four brief seconds between when I reminded him to try and keep them dry and the first moment he semi-"tripped" into the four inches of ocean water at the shore. "Oh well." Shoulders leap to earlobes, "They still work Mom." I turn my gaze downward as I shake my head and, in a brief moment I think I see the shell move. I look closely and realize there is a crab inside it. Not a hermit crab. A real one. It was tiny and green. The other animal in there began to move and agitate the crab such that one long tentacle is wrapping around the crab as he pushes himself from the shell. I jump a bit and both animals are paralyzed. I yell for Turner.
We investigate and observe for a very long time, and nothing happens. He decides we should should refer to the crab as "Quosa," and he made a funny sound as he joined the Q with the U. I can't replicate it. Anyway, he was consistent with the pronunciation and I found it fascinating. "What an interesting name Turner. What made you think of that?" "I don't know. [long pause] It's just because he is green I guess." After a long while, Turner tires of our observational study and requests follow the leader on the rocks. I join him with the mission that we send our wishes into the sea. When we return to our blanket--after five missed rock attempts, one major boo boo, one mommy losing her balance, another dog poop encounter, and nearly five mintues of wish making--the crab had made an escape. The other animal remains, tentacles pushing out the side and touching sand. It is clear he is an animal in need of water, so I ask Turner to bring him some. After much searching for an appropriate bowl-shaped shell, we give up. He decides to carry the shell to the water and put some drops in. He gets to the tide pool. He bends to look into the water and, as can happen to the best of us, his hand tilts as well. The animal inside must sense danger and reaches his tentacle out and touches Turner's arm. Turner throws the shell as far as he can, just as he screams. Then he is running and crying. In a moment he has lost his balance and plants a face into the sand. I flip out. "WHY ARE YOU CRYING!" I am running half wrapped in a beach towel, sea shells scratching my feet, the towel trailing behind me, and I swoop him up. I am scared and in a moment I realize that not only am I too lazy to go buy shampoo in a place where I will not know the language, I have no idea where the hospital is. My fear is sensed by Turner and he calms, "Mom!" "Yes. Where? Did it sting? Does it hurt?" I am pulling his jacket sleeve up and examining. "Mom!" And he puts his hand on my face. I meet his tear-filled eyes, "I just want my crab to come back." No real sting. No poisonous venom to suck out. Just a crab unwilling to make the drive back to Tucson in a red Solo cup.

3. The Boo Boo. On Saturday, when we arrived, Turner fell walking across the street. By Sunday, the scrape on his knee went from an asphalt / knee collision to a rock climbing expedition accident. Even today, at school, he told Ms. Peggy that he fell while climbing the rocks with me. Indeed, he did fall while climbing rocks with me. I fell too, at a different less dangerous place. Turner's fall, however, looked bad, but he caught himself and no rock contact was made with his skin. Tears formed and as soon as they did he dried them up. I was prepared to be sympathetic, as sometimes I can fail to be. Yet, he didn't want it. "I'm OK Mom. I can keep going." He literally dusted himself off and resumed leading me around the rock formations. Yet, when he relays the story of the boo boo to D and then again today at school, he tells the story of the fall at the rocks, not the fall crossing the street as the one that caused the three scrapes across his knee. I asked him if he wanted to put medicine on it tonight after his bath. He declined because "I like it like this."

*Funny sidenote: I am typing this in the kitchen. The two boxes that Cheryl mailed to us today are on the kitchen counter. One of them just started honking. :)

Beating the cold. Mexico.

We were up at 8:00 AM. Turner gave me ten extra minutes of quiet Mommy-needs-to-adjust-time so that I rally myself to pretend to be chipper this morning. In that ten minutes I listened to Turner nurture La La Bear. He changed her diaper (who knows when she started soiling herself) and had an extensive lecture with her about loving people deeply and showing them affection by saying often "I love you." Who can sleep through that?
While Turner watched a bit of his movie, I did lesson plans and showered. We made it to the beach around 11. Before we left, he asked to take La La Bear to the beach. Poor bear. In a rare quick-thinking moment of parenting, I said she was not old enough. He agreed. "You're right mom. We would have to bring her diapers with us and I don't wanna do that." Super.
Turner and I searched for seashells and loaded his bucket to the brim so he had plenty to throw into the ocean. He threw a few into the water, but his bucket handle broke and that, apparently, stole all the fun of throwing shells into the water. He spent the next hour jumping into the small pools of ocean water left by the retreating tide and climbing the big, black rocks that jut up out of the seashells. Then, Turner made a new friend, and they climbed rocks, splashed in the water and told each other stories. Over lunch he says that he told her about eggs hatching, and she told him about two octupuses (octupi?) who had a party and "in an embrace for cake" "one shooted up" while the other "got sad." I think there is some relevance in this story, but I'm not certain yet what it is. While Turner was distracted on an nearly empty beach, I finished revising my article and read a chapter of Ira Shor. All the while soaking up the warmth of sunshine dressed in all black (yep. That's me. Cold everywhere I go). I did manage to get down to a sweater and my bikini bottoms around 11:30 and get two solid hours of sun attention for my pasty legs.
At 1:30 Turner needs to potty and we rush off toward the Casita. He eats two Peanut Butter sandwiches (with a fork), orange yogurt, macaroni and cheese, and the rest of the Vanilla Wafers. He washes this down with a Capri Sun and some milk. It IS vacation you know. As we are eating our lunch he says, "Mom. You know La La Bear says she is three now."
"How is that possible? We didn't even bake her a birthday cake. You must have a cake to turn a year older." And, yes, I stand by this rule. No cake, no count.
"So what does that mean?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I can tell you one thing. It means if you are sending her to preschool you better get her potty trained."
He throws his hand into the air, dismissing me, "Oh Mom. You know I wouldn't send her to preschool." Somehow I resist the urge to engage the dialogue. I am curious why he wouldn't send her, given that we send him. I wonder what he thinks the benefits are and if I should pull him out of school so he can stay home with me all the time. He smears peanut butter on the table to distract me from my mind-rambling, and I am quickly assured that I am not the stay-at-home-parent type. How do I clean up peanut butter without having to touch, look, or smell it? It is impossible I tell you. Moments later, with him in the shower washing off the beach so we can go "walking around and see what we can see" I begrudgingly clean up what looks like La La Bear's diaper mess.
I must mention our shower. It is called "unique" by the owner. The shower is a stand up shower and the sink just kind of joins in with the shower. Anyway, Turner LOVES it. He stands in there and sings to himself, watching himself in the mirror. He won't let me sit in there with him to chit chat, but his conversation is clearly audible through the half-closed door. He tells fascinating stories, you know. Right now (I started this post after lunch) he is singing about water and feet and then he stops to offer warnings, "You gotta do this so that you can do that." Now he is singing again about the water being hot and he offers a repeating verse: "it sprays on me and makes my feet hot makes my nose hot makes my pee pee hot makes my heart hot makes my arms hot makes my ears hot makes my hair hot, no oh wait, it doesn't make my hair hot." This, I'm sure, because he does not want to wash his hair. No problem, of course, given that we don't have shampoo (the owner spotted us some body soap).
After lunch we walk up to Baja to see a piece of the Arizona game and so Turner can swim. The water is more than cold, but Turner is more than eager so...
He swims around a bit and entertains the gringos who are hoping for the SuperBowl. After he tires of this we searched for coins to play pool only to be disappointed. So, we return to the beach and throw rock after rock after rock, comparing height and depth and sound and splash. We walk way down the beach and traverse the streets on the way back so that I could try to figure out the geography here. We pass a taco shop on the way home and since it was taco time (4-ish) we stopped. We each had a fish taco and found them so tasty we each had another. I tell Turner the story of the Stork David who gave Andy and I a list of demands from baby Turner before he was entrusted in our care, which got us nearly back to our Casita. Almost 'home' a Jeep full of Gringas (is that correct? Anyway, middle aged white women) came barreling down a hill and about took us out. They were probably drunk as they screamed and laughed while rushing through the Alto signs and stirring up all the sand. Turner said, "Wow. They were really happy." I must admit that in our few short trips to Mexico all the drunk and/or obnoxious people I see are white Americans, not Mexicans.
We get back to the familiarity of our courtyard and play soccer. The wife of Troy joins in only to kick both our tails. When I have tired myself out, Turner and I get on the hammock and it is magically transformed into a ship that is tracking Captain Hook. We encounter many, many crocodiles, avoid a seagull collision, and I nearly drown when I am knocked off the side of the ship by a very boisterous captain.
We watch the inauguration concerts and add to our fish tacos some animal crackers and broccoli and apple juice and wheat crackers. We get the PlayDoh out and make a man. Then, Turner makes me a PlayDoh birthday cake while I type the conclusion to my article. While the cake bakes we discuss icing tastes. I am reminded again the legacy of a cook in the kitchen as he distinguishes to me "buttercream icing" as cow's icing and "regular icing" as the kind they use at school to make igloos.

Our first Mexico adventure.

The journey where I remember things too late. Mexico.

Up at 8 AM. I have packed and packed and organized since yesterday. I know that I have forgotten things. When there is just me to remember all of the things required for a beach weekend, well, that is absolutely dangerous!
Turner watches PBS while I shower and pack the car (seven trips back and forth). I remember to take out the trash and turn down the thermostat (which I forgot when we came to Kentucky). Forty minutes before we leave I ask Turner to put his shoes and socks on. He disappears upstairs. I remember to feed the fish. I remember to grab soda. I remember that Turner will need milk for cereal and bedtime, and I am so pumped that I remembered this very important luxury. After fifteen minutes I offer an encouragement up the stairs for Turner to hurry. I empty his cereal bowl. I remember my phone charger. I pack up my computer and am convinced I will get lots of work done while turner sleeps at night. Another fifteen minutes pass, and Turner still has made no sound from his room. I take the cooler to the car and drag the recylcing to the curb. I remember gloves and the sand pail, which reminds me of sunscreen. I traipse upstairs, and Turner meets me in the hallway barefoot. "Put your shoes on buddy. I'm leaving. Are you going?" He whines a bit. Retreats to his room. I go downstairs and fill up our water bottles. I remember the camera. I rush to it and hug it tightly, thankful that I remembered before we left. "Come on Turner. I will meet you in the car." It is an idle threat and he calls my bluff. "Right mom!" He still does not come down the stairs. "Just bring your shoes with you. You can put them on in the car." At 10:30 we are in the car and headed to the pharmacy. At 11 we arrive at Andy's work. At 12:30 we are finally back on Speedway and headed west to State Route 86 toward Why, Arizona (no kidding). Turner falls asleep. We couldn't find his real sunglasses (never fear, Andy has them) so he wears his purple ones. They fall around off his face when I hit a huge pothole. Gotta love those Arizonan Republicans who refuse to tax anyone to pay for roads.
I wind through the desert taking in quiet sunshine and lots of cacti. The road is filled with dips and turns and hills. I am amazed at the geography and only secretly second-guessing our direction (I am armed with an atlas. Mapquest wouldn't send me into Mexico). Half way through a Dixie Chicks song I remember the cooler. I forgot to buy ice for it. I spend quite a while wondering if the milk will go bad and trying to recall what else was put in the cooler that might not like the lack of ice (hamburgers to grill, pizza, salad, Caesar dressing, mac and cheese, yogurt, grown-up lunchables [my new favorite thing ever]).
I worry about when we will run out of American gas stations and decide to stop in the middle of the Tohono Nation to top off. Their credit card machine is OOO: Out of Order Ma'am. Cash. Geez. Did I get enough of that? I pump gas without my shoes on. Turner wakes up. He's been asleep about 35 minutes. I locate my Chaco's; we go inside; we potty; we discuss how looking at ice cream really does make you want it more; and then we return to our car. I want to insist he go back to sleep, but I know it will not do any good. I stay quiet and just hope for the best.
After another hour, I am certain we are going in the appropriate direction (I see a sign for Why, AZ) and I am equally certain that the very sleepy boy behind my seat is not going to sleep. We chat about the mountains and the change in sand and the volcano-looking rock that sprinkles the desert. I remember again that I don't have ice in the cooler, and I am fairly certain the gas station I just left would have been a perfect place to locate some ice. At least I have the million or more times that Turner asks me if we are at the beach yet to distract me from beating myself up for forgetting ice a second time. We eat peanut butter crackers, fruit snacks, rice cakes, left over chicken from Andy's work, and we drink all of our water. The wind gathers force inside the car and blows my hair into my face. Then, I remember that I never put shampoo in our bag, even though I told myself several times to not forget it. Then I remember other shower things I forgot like soap and a razor. Oh well.
We get to Gringo Pass. As is customary when entering Mexico, the armed personnel waves us in with a secret sign that says bring whatever you want because the Mexican government doesn't see you as a terroristic threat or an extraterrestrial. We stop off for car insurance ($28.00 and they did take plastic, thank goodness). Turner drags LaLa bear - naked - into the insurance office. A woman tries to make conversation with him in English. He is grumpy and, as is habit recently, he excuses himself from talking to her by proclaiming, "I didn't take my nap so I am grumpy and don't like to talk." When she ignores him and asks about the bear's name, he responds with a downtrodden voice, "La La Bear." His face is buried in her semi-matted fur. The lady laughs and slaps her hands together, "Oh. How cute." She turns to her partner. "He said it was La La Bear." With her accent, though, La La does not sound like La La. I'm sure Laura can do it for you. Turner was displeased with the inability of La La to translate correctly. He looks to the woman's eyes and says with great emphasis, "It is LA LA. Like my Laura except with just the first part." For emphasis he repeats La La again very slowly. "You know the letter 'L', right?" The lady, thankfully, is not offended by his gregariousness.
We return to our car and drive for another hour. During this time we see the road stretch before us as straight as an arrow and smoother than any Arizona road I've driven before. The speed limit is 90KM, which suits me just fine. There are signs for things I can't understand and with each passing wildlife diamond (each one picturing a different type of animal) I think that I should start counting them. Turner agrees. So, each time we pass a wildlife sign we guess the kind of animal it is (yes, I do mean we guessed at them because animals are not my area of expertise). I am hopelessly wrong I am sure but every kid deserves a parent who is clueless about things he knows lots about. He teaches me. Telling me stories that I think originate in a Land Before Time movie. I laugh a lot and wonder if copyright infringement is really such a big deal. I remember again I did not get ice at the border as I had planned to do in my mind.
We near Puerto Penasco and sand dunes replace the mountains. The road gets bumpy and Turner yells a few times, "Whoa Mom" as though he's stopping a horse. I have rough directions from Troy - the guy who owns our Casita. These directions are: "Cross the border. Go straight until you get to Puerto Penasco. Our house is the big yellow one on your left. We are two blocks from Manny's." When I hear him offer these directions over the phone yesterday I think, "Boy, this must be a small beach town. Awesome." Somehow the road we are on (RR 8) becomes sprinkled with signs for multiple venues and hotels and RV parks for the city, I am less convinced of the ease implied in Troy's directions.
We come to a sign that points us in three different directions for Puerto Penasco. I choose the middle path - the middle is always the best and, in this case, it turned out to be the luckiest choice. We drive and drive, and I read and read (granted, everything is in Spanish so I am trying to navigate toward a road name that I have no geographic understanding of). In the midst of this Turner screams so loudly I slam on the brakes. I am caught in the middle of the intersection having just ran a red light, which was red for some time given the amount of cars also in the middle of the intersection. In my defense, it was a weird intersection where one road is not meeting the other perpendicularly but instead at an angle. Plus, I am an English major. I know how to say yes in Spanish and count. That is my failure, of course, but seriously where is that yellow house?
I wave to the hostile people in three different cars who prevented an accident, and Turner and mosey on. We drive around and end up in a shopping district that lines the shore. It is a one way route and somehow we take that path twice before I figure out how to get on a road going north. I figure I can retrace my path and maybe find the yellow house. We never see Benito Jaurez again (the road we came in on). Turner is in the back seat reminding me every four or five seconds, "Nope. That one isn't yellow either Mom." I asked for it though.
We wind through streets that are not streets. We see homes that do not look like homes. We must stop for dogs about thirty times while they limp around the dirt road seeking something I cannot provide from the security of my Honda. We've been in the "quaint beach city" for nearly an hour. I pull to the side of the road, some road, any road, whatever road, and I try to call Troy. I get the machine. Insert curse word here. Two young men drive up behind me on ATVs. I realize then that I am parked at a stop sign. I get out of my car and ask the gentlemen if they can point me to Manny's Bar (Troy said it was two blocks from the yellow house). At the very least we can get to Manny's and walk around to find our Casita. The young men oblige my request and in only a few moments we are facing the ocean again, several blocks east of the shops we saw earlier. I take a left up the hill away from the ocean and we weave around the streets until I see La Palapa painted in elaborate detail on an orange wall. I exhale a huge, HUGE, sigh of relief. "I think we are here buddy." "Mom, this does not look like a yellow house to me. It looks very orange." I agree. We walk around the block wall and search for the way in. I cannot find it. There is a large gate but I am unsure how to open it. Troy had said on the phone yesterday to "just drive into the courtyard. Don't worry. I'll see you." Somehow, nothing had been as easy as he predicted. I call him again. He answers. He emerges from a yellow house (that faces the other street; one we can't DRIVE on, just one you can walk on).
Troy is very friendly and opens up our Casita for us. It is beautiful and clean and exactly as I had hoped. I am reminded again what a bargain this place is and am already sure we must return soon. Turner runs wild in the open yard while I load all our stuff in. There is an outdoor bar with a gas grill in case, according to Troy, Turner and I want to entertain. Also, there is a covered area with a table big enough for twenty people. I can imagine a fun time here with our friends cooking and enjoying the beach life. There are like six or so Casitas and then condos that look down into the courtyard. Not sure if the condos are Troy's or not.
I locate another snack, Ira Shor's book on teaching (blah), and Turner's swim trunks. When we stop by the car to retrieve his bucket I am reminded that we don't have a shovel, so I start digging in our stuff to find make-shift sand toys. Turner insists upon wearing his goggles and more than one Mexican pointed at us as we walked down the sandy path/road/excess building material storage area to arrive at the beach beside Manny's. The beach is lovely (except for dog poop) and shelly and rocky. I've never seen the Pacific ocean, and I sit in silence with Turner for much longer than I ever thought he would.
When he is up, though, he gets busy fast and throws shells for a long while. He spent much of the night Friday asking if Ashley was coming too and telling me over and over he couldn't wait to get to Nashville and throw shells into the ocean. When we stopped for gas at the Reservation he cried for several minutes when I explained that LaLa was not going to be in the part of Mexico we were going to. I can understand his confusion. Isn't all of Mexico Laura-land now?
Turner throws shells into the water, each time stepping a bit closer to the waves. I am reading and watching as his swim trunks get a little more wet with each throw. Eventually, he is rather submerged since he keeps picking things up from the ocean floor to throw and with each bend to the water he plunks his bottom into saltwater. At one point, I am drawn to his action and watch him as he tempts himself with the waves. He wants to put his face in the water. I can tell. He bends at the hip and gets close several times only to scoop his hand in the water and giggle at me. When I nose myself into my book, making him feel more comfortable in his independence, he looks to the sun, glances my way, and then pushes his entire face into the water. He comes out with a big yell and a laugh of glee. Quickly the smile fades and he starts spitting salt from his mouth.

I steal him away just as the sun loses itself behind the vast ocean. Troy told us not to be home after dark, so I am rushing Turner up the hill toward our Casita. We cross the road and just as we make it to the middle, Turner's foot grabs something and he goes down. He wants to lay in the middle of the road, and I cannot pick him up. I use my most authentic mommy voice to soothe him while also admonishing him to get up out of the road. He hobbles to the side of the road and sits on a pink wall. Glass bottles sprinkle every inch of Mexico but, thankfully, Turner finds a clean spot to place his wet bottom. Once we get back to our Casita and I cook dinner, he forgets about the bandaid I promised him, which is a good thing considering I remembered the Neosporin and forgot the Band-Aids.

Making beach plans. Mexico.

Turner and I are going to the beach this weekend since we have no school Monday and lots of extra time all of a sudden.
There are a couple of friends of ours who have rented a Casita a few times from the same gentleman. It is clean, has a kitchen, and looks onto the beach. I called him; he has no other renters for the weekend because of the Cardinal game. So, we are going. I am terrible at last minute things, but I think less planning can be a good thing for control freaks like me. He gave us an extra night free in case we decide to stay until Tuesday. I tutor Saturday morning, and we will leave shortly after that. I will let you all know how we fill our time once we get there (the guy says wireless works but can be sketchy). It will take us less than 3 hours to get there and YES I will get Mexican car insurance.

"It just came to me."

For a much needed break from Aristotle...
Turner made a snowboy at school today from Play Doh. He is a snowBOY not a snow man. He was emphatic about this point. He is white, smooshy, and has two legs that won't stay in place. In ten days (according to Ms. Carolyn's note) he will harden and be a permanent member of the place. Turner first said we must put him in the bathroom. As we approached Andy's work he decided, "Nah. We should just put him in your room I think. So he can watch you sleep. He would melt in the bath anyway."
The Snowboy's name is "CoCo." He tells me this first thing when I walk in the door at school. I ask, "Oh really. Where'd you come up with that name?" He throws his hands into the air, turns his hip to the side and says, "Oh I don't know. It just came to me."

The air and space museum.

The Light Up Kind.

As is customary, Turner's Christmas list grew as the season came and went. In November he asked for a Thomas the Train book with lights on it. A bit later, he added a request for Lightning McQueen shoes that light up. After a week, he added a Spiderman bike to the list. Next came the Polar Express train. Then, there was a trip to Toys R Us and the entire list shifted. He abandoned the bike and the book and the shoes, and he wanted instead: A Polar Express train, dinosaur stuff, teenage mutant ninja turtle that transforms into a car, a dirt bike, and a Thomas the Train something or other. In flight to Nashville, he reads the SkyMall and finds a ceramic train encircling a Christmas tree designed by Thomas Kinkaid; it made the final piece of the Turner Christmas List. (FYI: I am avoiding the living room simply because I have no idea where to store all of Santa's bounty.)

A few days after Christmas, Turner rekindles his desire for Light Up Lightning McQueen shoes. On our flight back to Tucson, there is a little boy in the airport with shoes that light up and have none other than the old red car himself spread across the side. We have just stepped off the train taking us from Gate A to Gate C in Dallas-Fort Worth airport. Turner is rested after his 2 hour nap on the first plane. He is groggy and quiet still. I am lugging two backpacks, a carry on, my vest and gloves, Turner orange vest, and trying to hold Turner's hand as we approach the escalator. "Mom." He screams. The kind of scream that he always has but is filled with such urgency that never once do you doubt catastrophe looms. 

I drop the carryon and stop, blocking the escalator. "What?"

"Look." He points to a kid stepping off the up escalator. "He has on my shoes. I want shoes just like that Mom. Just like that." He is pointing with vigor, and I rearrange all of our belongings into my two hands. I coax him to our gate listening through our quick lunch and during the nearly fifteen minutes it took us to walk to lunch about all the things that shoes like that could make him do, how they would make him feel, why he thought he should have them, and (of course) lamenting that Santa might have left them in Tucson (which he did not). So, I suggested to Turner that he use his Christmas money to buy the Light Up Lightning McQueen rockstar awesome shoes. I google said shoes and locate them at Payless. 

Turner calls me on his way to school yesterday morning to remind me that we are getting his shoes "after nap and then after snack too." I agree, and I arrive as directed that afternoon. We go to Payless, locate the shoes in all sizes but 11. A very helpful lady offers to measure his foot, and indeed he needs the 11. Turner stuffs his foot into the 10, looks at me longingly and says, "They fit just fine Mom. I can just do this to my toes. See?" He plops his foot in front of me. I feel for his toes. There is no way. 

Helpful Payless woman calls other stores and locates Turner's shoes very inconveniently at 22nd and Kolb (a.k.a., forever away from our house). We get there. In the parking lot Turner heaves his first words since we left the other store, "Finally. I sure hope they still have my shoes." We find them. He puts them on. The saleswoman clips the tags off and Turner starts dancing in the store while I pay. When I grab the bag containing his old shoes, he takes off for the door with lights blazing (it is really dark outside now). We spend thirty minutes in the parking lot of the shoe store dancing, running, jumping, and finding any sort of way to make his shoes twinkle with speed.

Holiday.

Thank you for a most relaxing Christmas season. We so appreciate the time everyone took to visit and play.