Call Mom.

Ok so maybe you've heard Turner is growing: up and down, here and there, left and right, all around solid, tall and thick, and I'm supposed to act "normal" and to "stop being nostalgic." Today, he calls from baseball camp, at the high school, where he is from 8-ish to 4:30-ish everyday. It's a long day out in the sun. When he comes home Monday, he is manly. He smells loud. His face is brushed with dirt. He's tired. He doesn't engage much. His posture somehow widen his shoulders. His voice even seems deeper, probably dehydration. After his shower and our dinner and a slow warming back up to the family, Turner scoots his body right next to mine on the couch and leans his head against the front of my shoulder. I take the chance to stretch my arm around his shoulder and tell him I love him. "Mom. Let's just be close, okay?" No need to draw attention to the snuggle-fest happening. I get it.

Tuesday, I get a phone call from an unfamiliar number and by some miracle I see the phone ringing and answer it.

"Mom?" There, right there, that voice is a five year old Turner who has asked his teacher if he can call me. We'd forgotten a lunchbox, perhaps. I remember how impressed Ms. Cipolla was that he knew the area code plus the number. I realize that my mind has transported me back eleven years and just as I gather my voice, he says it again. "Mahmm." This time, a little deeper and less frightened, though retaining the nasally middle vowel and the elongated "m" at the end.

"Yes. Ah, yes Turner. What's going on?"

"Uhm. The wire in my braces is poking out." I have no idea how to respond to this. Is it poking a hole in your mouth? Is the wire hanging out? Did it get caught on something? Were you eating? It is about lunch time . . . "Uh hello?" He's waiting for me to check into this conversation.

"I can come pick you up? Do you want me to come pick you up?"

"No." His tone says how absurd my suggestion is.

"Ok. Well, what should I do?"

"Nothing." He sits quiet and I know I'm supposed to be saying something else.

"I love you."

He shouts, "Mom!" I smile. Surely I'm not on speakerphone.

"Ok. I'll tell Dad. I bet he can get the wire fixed for you."

An exasperated sigh and "thank you" and the line breaks.