Three!

Sweet Luke,

You turned three recently. Three! Can you believe it? I hardly can. Somehow you've grown from a curled up little baby, smiling with milky dreams to a rambunctious, mischievous, and hilarious little boy.

When you were two, I'd always tell people that you were the quintessential two-year-old. Completely irrational, violently moody, but endlessly sweet and hopelessly hilarious. I feel like the same applies to your three-year-old self. You are the definition of three. You challenge me every day to be better, gentler, and kinder. I reach the end of my rope with you multiple times a day and yet, somehow, always have just a little bit of rope left. When we get upset with each other you come to me and ask "do you need a hug?" and of course, I always do. I think your love language is physical touch, if I had to guess. You are hugger, a smoocher ("fmoocher", because you have a sweet little lisp too), and generally a sweet cuddle bug. If I am sitting near you, but not directly beside you, you'll come crawl into my lap. It's interesting to me, to have a child who requires so much physical contact, because I'm not a very touchy feely person. Yet with you, there is no end to the hugs, tickles, hand holds and other things we do every day. If you are hurt or upset, the first thing you look for is a snuggle. I don't know if this is typical of three-year-olds, but I certainly love it.

You spent the months before your birthday living with your dad, and it was hard. You still bring it up sometimes. "'Member when you had to go to Edmonton and I cried 'cause you were gone?" It breaks my heart every time, but then we talk about how I had to go be a midwife and I'm back now and it's just all summer long. "'Cause we're best buds!" is your enthusiastic reply. And we are.

I try to tell you every day how lucky I am to be your mama, and every time you tell me that you are lucky to be my boy.

Love doesn't begin to cover it, little one. The past three years have been the best ones and I can't wait to celebrate you in all the years to come.

I'm yours.

Mama

"I'm still here," she whispered.

My plan was to spend this summer writing. To tap away and chronicle Edmonton, placement, summer, life with Luke, Luke in general, single parenthood, my slow descent into hippiedom, and all the other great things that 2014 hath wrought. And yet, here I am in July and nary a peep since January.

So, I'm going to write.

I think about writing every day. I'm like a writer with no follow through, so that makes me just a regular person. How boring.

So, I'm going to write.

There will likely be little respect for chronology. Photos may or may not match the appropriate time period. It'll be a bit more like a film "based on actual events" than a documentary, but it'll exist and I suppose for me, right now, that's all I can really manage to care about.

Here goes.