The escalator ride.

(Found this tidbit scratched in a notebook that I was cleaning out today.)

Turner and I go to the mall today so that T can interact with some kids and get some energy out while I drink a wonderful, cold soda and start planning my courses. I'm not familiar with the mall yet (and perhaps will never be . . . I mean who wants to shop at Gap when you have handmade clothes available in boutiques downtown for a decent price?!). So, we enter through a big box store, J. C. Penney, where we look for Turner some hiking shoes. He quickly lets me know he is NOT interested in shoes today, just in playing and making new friends. We move on. He spots the escalator and starts with the simple and convincing logic of a six year old, "Mom, please, can we go up the escalator just once? Only once, and then we can go to play. I haven't been on one in so long. Now that we don't need airplanes to visit people, I haven't been on a single escalator you know. I miss them. I mean, I really, really need this." I stand strong, because I know we'll go through the same conversation as we leave the mall no matter how many times I allow him to travel the escalator on our way in. A quick No with a reminder about all the friends waiting for him. He looks longingly up the escalator and then drops his head down low.

He quickly forgets his loss when we start the walk to the play area. I ask him what kinds of games he hopes to play with the other children. He says, "I don't know. But I hope there are boys there. I hope there are boys there that are my age or older. If not, we should go home to play with Liam and Oliver" [our neighbors who have parents that work during the day and, therefore, we only get about 45 minutes of play with them in after dinner but before bath time. Their mom keeps a pretty tight schedule; I'm sure she has to to ensure they all make it to work and summer camp on time.]

Turner plays for about an hour. He eats Chicks Fil E and wonders why the mall location doesn't do milkshakes. He plays for another hour. He meets more kids than he can recall names for, several of whom are older boys willing to play Pokémon or eager to chase monsters, which ended up being the boys who were younger than seven. Turner, of course, did not correct the boy who assumed Turner was seven. He just smiled really big at me when the boy thought up the monster game and said to Turner, "And you are with the big kids trying to outrun the little monsters."

As we are leaving the mall, Turner's hair sleek to his head with sweat, he tells me he is sleepy. This kind of confession never happens while the sun is still up. I laugh. He says, "Mom. It isn't funny. I wasn't making a joke."

I say, "So you think you need to go home and take a little nap so that you can be rested enough to play with Liam and Oliver tonight?"

He says, "Oh right Mom. Now that is a funny joke."

As we move slowly through the bright lights toward J.C. Penney he hangs on my arm and asks me to carry him more than once. Yet once he sees the escalator, his energy perks up and he looks at me as though to ask again, Can I? I take off running like something is on fire toward the escalator. He squeals, "Mom! Wait for me! Mom! Not fair. You have to give me a head start. Mom!" I mean, he's screaming at me loud. The grandmotherly women at the jewelry counter stare as my purse slams into something (not knocking it down, but making a loud noise). Turner never stops screaming and laughing from behind my heals, "Mom! I want to go first."

We ride the escalator until Turner decides we are finished. As we go up for one of the last trips, I smile really big and tell him I love him. He responds in his usual fashion. I'm struck in this moment by the memory of riding the escalator in the E-town mall when I was a child. Being dragged on shopping excursions with Janice and Mom was never my first choice of how to spend a perfectly good Saturday. Yet my solace was that I got to ride the escalator as much as I wanted while Mom looked at dresses, which were arranged near the up escalator. So as I'm riding the escalator with my son, who is talking a mile a minute about imagined animals and their need to ride an African shuttle to different levels of the rainforest, I am reminded that soon, much much too soon, this beautiful kid is not going to be the least bit interested in escalators. Or me, for that matter, his old mother who is not hip or interesting or whatever. Yet today, I am rewarded with a huge hug and small kiss on the nose as I open Turner's door for him. And then he says, "Mom. I loved being with you today and so glad we didn't get lost at the mall." This is a kid who has been lost every single day since our arrival in Asheville. We're learning to just roll with it and hope that within five minutes we find something familiar. If not, I ask for directions!

Mattress shopping.

Turner has been upgraded to a queen size bed in our new house. He did not complain about the 3/4 bed, but we figure the larger bed will be more comfortable for guests. We threw away the mattress set for the 3/4 bed after I did the math and realized my folks bought nearly fifteen years ago.

Turner and I went mattress shopping yesterday and today, searching for the right firmness/softness for the 3/4 bed, to go in the sunroom. Turner's loved being with a distracted mom in a room full of beds that are just waiting to be bounced on. At the first store it seemed the beds called out to him. Even after I reprimanded him for jumping on the bed, he felt compelled to bounce. Though he offered an articulate distinction between bouncing and jumping that made me approach restriction more rhetorically in the second store. In it, I gave him a location where he could waller (as my grandma would call it) on all of the beds, but his feet could not leave the top of the bed. This rule doesn't allow for bouncing or jumping. Eventually, of course, he became quite creative and had his feet barely on the bed as he stretched other parts of his body to nearby mattresses. He fell a few times, which enhanced the danger I believe.

It was in this store, where they sell organic mattresses that will knock your socks off, that Turner experienced a Tempurpedic mattress. He lay down and let out this huge exhale, "Ahhhhhhhh!" The only other customer, thankfully, was a grandmother-type and she laughed so hard at his innocence and personality.

"Oh Mom. You gotta try this one. Oh my goodness. This feels SO good. Oh Mom, come on now. Lay on this one."

I stretch out beside him, my fiftieth mattress in two days. It does feel good, but not nearly as awesome as the $4000 organic set. But, I like soft.

"Wow. This feels great. I think this is the kind of mattress PK and Mer have."

He shoots out of the bed like lightning. "WHAT! They have this mattress at home?"

"I think so. I mean, their set is huge though. Like a king size."

"No way!" Total disbelief. I laugh.

"Um, yeah."

He climbs off the bed and we walk to the door. "Well I just. must. spend the night there sometime with Uncle Pat Pat's bed."

Car ride comedy.

In my journal 6/16/11 I started a list of Turner colloquialisms experienced on the move back east, day one. It reads:

1.

Me: "How's your Zbar?"

T: "Disgustingly yummy." [phonetic representation is Dis kuuus ting lee yuu uh uh uh uh UH mee] Z bar, by the way, is a protein bar with only organic ingredients. Great source of iron and calcium too. They taste really great, as a bonus.

2.

As we are leaving Sedona, which was such a wonderful good bye to Arizona, Andy and I are pointing out beautiful red rocks jutting up out of the earth on both sides of the highway. We move roundabout to roundabout winding toward the interstate, captivated by the rugged landscape. Andy asks Turner, "Do you want to go to the painted desert?"

T responds, "No. I don't want to see anymore beautiful stuff." He sighs loudly, and then we sit in silence for several miles. Then he shouts out as though stung by a bee, "Oh!" He points out the window and sing songs with a big smile, "how pretty."

3.

We're passing Lotawatah Road in Oklahoma. The interstate passes over a lake with a lot of water (lotawatah). Turner asks, Is that water from ____[can't remember what name of a city he offered]___. I respond, "Yes." He says matter of fact, "oh well then that's definitely crocodile creek." He nods his head up and down.

4.

As we drive through Oklahoma, our surroundings get greener. Grass shows up. Trees are tall with leaves. The sandy reddish clay is replaced by dark dirt. From silence Turner shouts out, "Hey. This is the route to my cousin's house!"

5.

Day two, we get into Arkansas. Just as we cross the state line, Turner asks, "Where's a pirate's favorite place to hang out? In ARRRkansas." I asked Andy to write this in my journal. He also added, "This comes from our last night in town sitting at the kitchen table with the Juárez / Kirkpatrick clan telling pirate jokes." Kilan, Cielo, and Turner have entertained us so often at that kitchen table.

Our journey east was short and pleasant. It was not in the least tainted by the misfortune plaguing our move west. We're moving home, so I think we got some lucky breaks this time. Turner, as usual, was an interesting conversationalist and patient car-rider. We left Tucson Wednesday and arrived in Sedona that night in time to grab two glasses of wine and pack a snack for the sunset. We left mid morning and drove until we reached Oklahoma City, stopping to pee only when we had need for fuel. In the car it was a perpetual cycle of food. I made sandwiches to order and provided a rotating selection of healthy and sweet snacks. We drew pictures. We talked about memories. We read stories and stories and stories. I wrote. Andy drove. During the nine hours I drove during the 29 hour trip, Andy slept. We visited the Oklahoma City memorial and took the time and space to talk with Turner about this aspect of American history. We stopped in Albuquerque to eat at a pub Marissa and Todd took us to when our families went snow skiing together. We drove until 11 pm when we finally arrived at Dugantown Estates. Nanny was on the couch waiting as usual.