Moments

I said hurry up.

Impatient, rude. Intolerable. I immediately snap back Don't speak to me like that Téo, and as the words leave my mouth, I simultaneously recognize his perfect mimic of my own rude, impatient tone, and remember how as a kid I hated this same hypocrisy.

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Sitting in the trolley at the supermarket, Lukan reaches out for me, puts his arms around my neck, pulls me close, hugs me tight, lets me go with a wide grin, kisses my cheek.

Later, driving home, I realize my weekly shopping trips with Lukan will be over once he starts at the garderie in August. I already start to miss this time with him.

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Téo has woken, after being asleep in Nani's car, which she left outside the house. He comes inside and collapses in tears, his neck sore, his head still groggy. He climbs into my lap, sobbing, and I hold him until he feels better.

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I'm on the toilet. Lukan is wailing into my lap, upset that I won't let him sit on the couch to eat his rice cake, smearing said rice cake, now mushy with tears, into my clothes. Téo has squeezed himself between the toilet and the wall, demanding a hug. I feel crowded and stifled. I'd just like a minute, half a minute even, to go to the toilet alone.

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Apropos of nothing, Téo calls down the stairs: I love you mummy! You're the best mummy in the whole world!

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I show Téo a grasshopper, perfectly camouflaged as an old brown leaf, in his new sticker book, telling him how this protects the grasshopper from being eaten by birds. He doesn't seem that interested, barely waiting for me to finish speaking before he's clutching the book away, wanting to look at something else.

But then afterwards, he shows the grasshopper to everyone who comes to our house, explaining how it looks like a leaf so the birds won't eat it.

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We're going upstairs. Téo races ahead to hide behind the bathroom door. Lukan toddles after him, giggling. When I get there, they leap out gleefully, shouting BOOOOO!!!!!

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We're talking about Téo's first day at school. I'm going to ride my bike to school, all by myself, he says. Not with you mummy, all by myself.

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Lukan is in bed. Goo-nigh tractor bom bom bom bom he sings, his rendition of "Goodnight Sweetheart", which we have sung to him every night. Good night mummy, sleep well, see you in the morning Téo says as I leave the room, preempting my own ritualistic repeating of these words.

Good night my boys.