A big talk.

Turner asks about babies A LOT. In fact, he is convinced that all these kinds of big things will happen when we move again. You know, "big" things like Mommy will have another baby and Turner will get a new dog and we will get a new car (he has so little patience with all the broken things in our fabulous car). He tells me that all the other mommies love their kids so much that they "always" give them another baby whenever they (the kids) want one.

Last night I am frying fish and Turner is eating his pre-dinner. I tell him we are going to a shower tomorrow. There is confusion about whether water is involved. I explain it is a bridal shower for Faith and LaRue. I tell him they are getting married and we are celebrating their happiness. He says, "Oh. Of course. Will I get to see Faith's tummy?"

"Why?"

"Well. Is her baby in there yet?"

"No. Why do you think there will be a baby in there?"

"Well," he says this with that tone of 'you already know this but I will be patient and explain it to you again,' "Mom. They are getting married so the baby comes into Faith's tummy so everyone will know."

"But, not everyone that gets married has babies. And, not everyone that has babies gets married." I offer him examples of people he knows who embody these lifestyles.

"Oh. Then how do babies get there if it isn't getting married?" I flip fish. Several times and hope he'll say something else for me to address than this big questions of where babies originate. I don't want to lie to him or talk to him about some fanciful stork. But, I am not ready to whip out some grown up words to a little guy that might want to spread them around school...And then,

"Do girls marry girls?"

"Um. Well. Sometimes."

"Only in Kentucky, right?"

"No, girls can't marry girls in Kentucky."

He starts in the middle of my sentence to disagree, "But Miss Peggy said girls couldn't marry girls in Tucson."

"Well, she's correct, but . . . "

"Avah and Emma will just have to go to Kentucky to get married."

"Oh. They want to get married?"

"Yeah. I told them how to get to Kentucky."

"And how do they do that?"

He gets up from the table and puts his corncob into the trash. "Mom. You are always asking such silly questions. You know how to get to Kentucky. You get on the airplane and then somebody shows up at the airport and drives us home." I have never been so lonely for home in my entire life.

Update to the swimming post last night (when I checked out my notes from the conversation last night, I found a note at the top I'd written at the pool. Here t'is.)

There are loads of things about being a parent that fall into the category under which my father gently filed many of our conversations, "You'll understand it someday when you have kids." There are times when I am taking in Turner as he moves through his day and I feel some of those emotions Daddy tried to explain over and over. I just love him with such fullness, and I find every thing he says to have meaning even beyond what he sometimes knows. He does things, for example, that sound just like Andy, or he'll make facial expressions or body movements that are familiar to those who love Turner. He inherited all of these things, and it is our job to help him embrace them as a legacy of love I suppose.

I am a lover of water, but I hate for it to be in my face. Laura appreciates this too. Even in the shower, if I get water in my eyes I am a big baby about it and refuse to open my eyes again until I can get to a dry towel. I hide it fairly well, I think. Turner hates water in his face too.

We had been at the pool for about twenty minutes or so. T was water doggin it around the pool, chasing boats and looking under the water with his scuba gear. At one point he turns around abruptly and starts swimming frantically from the deep end of the pool. I feel fear weave inside of me because in the pace of his swimming I sense that something is wrong. As he nears, I see that his eyes are tightly shut. He is swimming to the sound of my voice (he keeps calling my name and I say Yes and he keeps swimming).

"Why are your eyes closed Turner?" He is still swimming. It is a far swim for a little guy in a life jacket.

"I have water in them." His pace is so swift that he is splashing tons of water all over his face as he continues to swim the length of the pool. Noland and his dad laugh. They think this is super cute. It takes me a few moments to realize what they were laughing at. When I do, I explain how Turner hates water in his face. Then I remember my father explaining one of my ticks to someone and that person saying something not very nice about indulgence. After we were back in the car I cried, ashamed that I had embarrassed my father in front of his friend. He assured me he was not embarrassed in the least, that he loved even the crazy things about me. He told me that parents support all things about their children, and that I wouldn't understand the depth of that support until I had children of my own. Each day that Turner gives me the opportunity to share in his world in some way or to support him somehow, I realize a bit more how deeply my folks love me. Today, I just provided a dry towel.

Scuba Turner.

Cough cough...he drinks a lot of pool water. His mouth is always open, either talking or laughing or just breathing heavy from all the swimming.

Turner got new scuba gear at Target. Kilan had one the last time he was here. We dug through the bags looking for a Turner size scuba set, and I found three. He picks the green one and says, "I wish they had a purple one." I look through them again and hanging on the adult hook is a purple Turner size scuba set. He held it all the way home on his lap just turning it over and over telling me about all the different parts. When we get home he opens it up and walks around with the snorkel in his mouth for over thirty minutes as I change clothes, makes snacks, and get pool things together. Slobber is dripping off his chin as we head to the pool. Noland and his family were at the pool. Noland is an older boy that enjoys creative play like Turner does, and Noland's mom enjoys playing along like I do. Turner shares his scuba things with Noland, and then the two spend most of their time sailing around in their ship being attacked by sharks.

These are pictures from when Turner painted PK's get well card and everyone else's "because I love you" cards.

Ortestraka on mother's day.

Turner and I went to the symphony orchestra tonight for Pops in the Park. Each Sunday, the Tucson S.O. performs at Reid Park from 7 - 9 for free (they pass a donation basket that Turner ran down, literally, he ran the man down to give him our $5). Since it was Mother's Day, they played lots of bubbly tunes and several from the Sound of Music.
We packed a picnic and 45 seconds after Turner was up from his nap, we were out the door (not really, but it was pretty fast). On our short drive there, I tell Turner about the first time I went to the orchestra in Baltimore, and how beautiful it was. I explain to him that the music, when it is inside, fills your ears so much that you feel it inside your body as though it is beating with your heart and tapping behind your eyes. He giggles. I tell him I went to the orchestra with CiCi, and I tell him how much she enjoyed the orchestra too. We practice a bit how to say orchestra. His way wins out. I tell him how much fun I think CiCi would have at the park with us. He asks if there is an ortestraka in Kentucky. I tell him yes there is an orchestra in Kentucky, and Turner says that CiCi should just go there sometime and then he could tell her about our ortestraka and she could tell us about hers. I tell him that sounds like a novel idea.
We get to the park, and I put Turner on parking spot identification duty. As always, he locates us a spot right up front. "Whew Mom," we've been looking for several minutes, "that was getting awfully close wasn't it? Didn't think we would find one but we did." I am glad he is excited.
We find some grass (Yes, there is some very un-environmentally friendly grass in the desert) and spread out our blanket. We unpack our lunch boxes. Turner had cheese and cracker sandwiches, and he politely sat through my telling about eating these sandwiches while at the lake and once eating them with soggy crackers because my sister stood over me dripping her life jacket water into my lap. We also had corn on the cob, special water, strawberries with chocolate, and I roasted some vegs that Turner wouldn't touch but the old man next to us said smelled delish.
For an hour and twenty minutes we ate and listened to the music. We couldn't see the orchestra, we could only look out over the baseball field and the slides because we got there too late for spots on the other side of the hill. Turner watched the boys play kick ball for awhile while he ate. He cut paper as a distraction for a bit. The rest of the time he alternated between cheese and putting his head on my arm.
At intermission Turner ran down the hill to the playground equipment. He danced with some elderly woman next to a sculpture. The woman, probably a grandma to one of the four little boys playing with Turner, was hearing music that none of the rest of us could hear. Turner must have heard it too because they swayed together for a bit. Then he was off playing chase or tag or whatever. He was the youngest by far, but he didn't give up. As the music came back up, Turner came back to the blanket as I'd requested. He ate some more. Then went to a special ice tree, where he and another little girl threw ice for five songs. As the last song came up, Turner was chasing Angelina (another 4 year old) down the slide. When I told Turner it was time to go--America the Beautiful in the background--he leaned over to Angelina and whispered, "Do you wanna come over to my house?"
Angelina's mother and grandmother were nearby. They got tickled. I told Turner that I didn't think tonight was the best night for new houseguests, but that it was thoughtful. He asked if the little girl will be back the next time. I offer "next week?" He says, "Yeah. Will you be here then?" Angelina says she doesn't know. Her mother confirms that yes she will be there. The mother and I talk about the orchestra and I learn this goes on every Sunday and that it lasts until September. We make small jokes about monsoon season. As Turner walks obediently to the car, which is rare when leaving the park, he says, "You know Mom. The ortestraka isn't that bad. I think we should go even when it isn't special mom's days."

Bribes.

It is no secret to most of you that I must bribe Turner to get him on the phone. Occasionally he asks to call PaPa, but that is a very occasional thing. As he gets older, I must bring better bribes to the table. The promise of a piece of gum, a special snack, or a trip to the park will no longer warrant phone time. So, I get sneaky sometimes, slipping it into conversation that he should call so and so and sometimes he'll agree . . . sometimes. Today, this is how it played out.
I pick Turner up from school early, anxious to get my Mother's Day surprise (he made me a beautiful flower pot and a picture frame that says he loves me because I let him have lifesavers when he helps me make dinner). His class is watching Turner's Land Before Time movie. I chit chat with Erin's mom in the hallway while the last dinosaur learns the moral of the story. We grab Turner's loot and head to the movie store, then home. NPR, of course, is on the radio. The announcer comes on and tells us the temperature just as I am thinking how bloody hot it is in a black dress, in a black car, in the middle of the desert on this fair May day.
"Did you hear that Mom? One hundred degrees."
"Yeah. I was just thinking how hot it is."
"Yeah. I know. It is almost like melting."
"I know. I can't hardly believe how hot it is Turner. It is May. M-A-Y, May. Wow."
Turner shakes his head in the backseat. "Sure is Mom. And it makes me so sweaty."
"You know what Turner. I bet no one would believe that it is one hundred degrees here today. How hot do you think it is in Kentucky?"
"Oh I don't know." There is a woman on a bright pink three-wheel-bike. Her hair is huge from riding without a helmet, and it is very long. She is a fairly young woman, though older than me, and she is wearing this long, bright dress that I would love to have. This woman is very tall, and the gaudiness of her bike seems to suit her a little. She waves at me to acknowledge I am staring at her. I smile and wave back. Though this looks nothing like CiCi, the bike makes wonder if with three wheels her kids might let her have one.
"You know Turner. I bet you dessert that if you called CiCi and told her it was one hundred degrees today, that she would not believe you."
"Oh yeah. I bet she would." Good. He's enthusiastic.
"Really. OK." I start digging frantically for my phone as the light changes colors. "Well let's just call her and tell her. Let's see who can win this bet."
"Mom. You need to go." I drive on and continue to dig with one hand. I locate the phone as pieces of Talk of the Nation replay.
"Here Turner. Let's call CiCi." I start dialing.
"No Mom. I'm not gonna do that. You can just win."
"What do I win?"
"Oh Nothing I guess. I just don't want to talk on the phone at all. I just need to sit in the backseat a bit."
"OK." We stop at the next light. We wait in silence. I put the phone in my lap.
After a few minutes Turner says, "You know. Cici can just listen to the radio, and she'll know it was one hundred degrees today."
"Yeah, I guess she could, but sometimes it is just nice to hear the sound of sweet voices."
"Well Cici sure is sweet, but I think she'll be just fine hearing the radio in her car."

Doing homework.