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!