I love this moment of Luke and his first jack in the box.

In April, I jotted down some of his cute sayings with the notion I'd be blogging about them. Better late than never. Some of these quotes are only six weeks old, but they already sound like a younger Luke:

• This train of thought begins after I tell him that we used to have a dog: "I petted him in my house lesterday when I was a baby." (He still says lesterday for yesterday.)  Then, "A-ha!" Then, "Do babies say 'a-ha?'" Then, "Why do we have tongues in our mouth-es?" (said as two syllables). Then, in a voice compromised by his fingers on his tongue, "Do cats? Do dogs? Do lions?"

• Also from April: "I'm going to go play by myself." Me: "Really?" Him, firmly, "Yes." Then, taking my hand, "C'mon, I want you to come with me."

• From early April: "Lukies don't eat apple skin." And: "I'm not little. I'm medium." And: "Pet me again."

• He calls Halina "Nina" and sometimes "my Nina."

By the way, he does eat apple skin now. That's how fast it goes.

I'm not sure about including things like this in the blog, but I'm going to go ahead and see how it feels: I've been hit hard at times lately that I'm about to lose my two year old. And while this is fine (I'm about to gain a three year old), I wish that I'd found a way to have more mornings with him in the last six months. I've had all the afternoons, but far fewer of the mornings than I'd intended, and looking at that is awfully painful for me. I keep thinking I'm about to have a morning but I keep not having a morning. There is a work deadline or a play date or care swap (not the same as time alone with him). And now it's over. (I know, so dramatic. But there it is.) And he cried often when he had to leave. I know he went on to have a good time, but he also wanted something that I wanted to give him: to stay home, to stay with me. At least sometimes. To be able to meet someone's deep emotional needs in a way that also meets your own? It's heavenly. It's important. It's love. Yes, I had all the afternoons, but they are different. There is a burnt-out energy, a fatigue, the demands of the evening starting to pull, housework piling up, and the conflicts that arise with a sibling. It's harder to have that feeling of "doing right" for both of you. I treasure the mornings with him, just puttering around or running errands or playing at the park. They just cannot get enough of you at two years old. And I cannot get enough of them. Such agreeable little companions. Three is more complicated and, I'm remembering now, full of new frustration (for the three year old). But full, too, -- as I'm sure I'll remember -- of new wonderful adventures and ways to love.

And the work was important. I needed to do that and it was a way of "doing right." So I do not regret working. I just wish I'd had more mornings. Which was what I'd vowed to have for myself from the get-go. So why do I lose sight of it? How can I change to reduce such regrets? Or is it just the way it is?

And maybe I'm mis-remembering to some degree, and I did have mornings. Just not quite enough. Tracking such things is one obvious idea. If only I can stick with it. Which is why I'm thinking of doing the Happiness Project. More on that later.

A couple more tidbits about Luke. For the past couple months, he's been tirelessly interested in hiding ("Mommy! Find me! Find me, Nina!"). This hiding usually involves putting a couple of small throw pillows over himself on the couch, with most of his body poking out. As long as his head is hidden, he thinks he's all hidden. He also likes to hide under the back of my shirt. "Find me, Mommy!" And he loves to hide with someone under a pile of pillows or deep in the blankets. Daddy is often up for a mini-nap hiding out with him. There is something restful and sweet about it, listening to his warm breathing, face pressed close, and his surprising patience. Often he is waiting for someone who is not even looking for him. But he waits and waits, perfectly still.

Before bed lately, he likes to play baby bear and daddy bear with Chris, which involves fishing for salmon, digging up roots and grubs, picking berries, and of course, hibernating. When he waits for the fish to swim by in the stream, he squats down and his little paws are up in front of him, claws loosely curled. Then he pounces for the fish with a sudden, swift bounce and devours it with wild, hungry smacking noises.

He also is very interested in my tummy. I was worrying about it a lot a couple months ago, wondering why it seemed so suddenly big, and got some tests done. And I'm fine. But around this time, I was probably pulling up my shirt a lot and looking at my belly, and so on. So he started paying a lot of attention to it, patting it, kissing it, saying, "I'm  going to love your belly," and then pressing his cheek to it. And he continues to do some of this now, out of habit. All of this makes me feel like my belly is probably as well loved as it's ever been. Which is a very nice thing for an imperfect belly.