A Week in the Life of Lou

I hate to say I told you so, but when I’m right, I’m pretty right.

Also, I’m pretty, right?

Sorry, kind of a dad joke there.

Anyway, let’s travel back in time for a moment to January 2019. Or maybe it was the first week in February, who can remember the exact date?

If you’ll recall, I’d had a miscarriage a few months before that. It was a long and arduous process, complete with all kinds of hormonal fluctuations, and ultimately, I had to have a D&C. (Dilation and curettage for all of you “miscarriage-uninformed.” I think that’s the PC term nowadays. Anyway, it included general anesthesia, which was AMAZING.)

That would have been baby #4 for us. I guess #5 if you count my first miscarriage back in 2008. 

Anyway, we already had very healthy Nate, Sam, and Tess and for some reason we thought adding a fourth one-syllable name to the mix would really round everything out. Make us feel complete. 

The plan was to wait a few months after my uterus recovered from the D&C to see if I got pregnant. By Thanksgiving, I was still infertile, so Tighe and I agreed that it was time to schedule his vasectomy. 

But the earliest they could take him was April. Five months away. 

So we’d just “be careful” for a while. Pull and pray. 

And then in early 2019, I felt sick one morning. I had just dropped Sam at preschool and I was STARVING! And dizzy. With no good reason because I’d just eaten a substantial breakfast. 

I pulled Tess away from her playdate a tad early and we headed to Target, where, among other things, I bought a pregnancy test. 

Yep, pregnant. 

Tighe was distraught when I shared my news that night. 

Okay, distraught is a strong word. But for a few short weeks we had resigned ourselves to three kids. We were done. Tess would be in school three days a week next fall. We’d potty-train her over the summer, then we’d be free to travel and spend money again. 

Never count your chickens before they’re hatched, I guess. Or plan your empty nest lifestyle before you’re done laying eggs. Or something. There’s some sort of avian metaphor that works there. 

“Don’t worry,” I told Tighe as we were processing this news together. “Someday this baby will be your favorite child!”

To be honest, I was reassuring myself as well as Tighe. Babies are a lot of work and sometimes they really wreak havoc on everything, especially the household sleep cycle. 

But… they’re cute. And toddlers are funny. So after they start sleeping through the night, they totally redeem themselves.  

Which is exactly what Lou did.

From my most difficult pregnancy—ten solid months of exhaustion and dehydration—to my most difficult newborn—six solid months of colic and sleeplessness, Lou became our favorite toddler. 

And not just because he was born into a larger fan club by default. The youngest child always is. He quickly learned how to tweak his antics to optimize laughter from his siblings and their friends. 

Sitting in his highchair, he originally looked surprised at the laugh track from the people surrounding him, but soon that surprise turned to a sense of accomplishment. Pride in his work.   

He lives his life with “an enthusiasm unknown to mankind.” It’s Jack Harbaugh’s mantra, or part of it anyway, and he tried to instill that in his kids. Tighe’s done the same thing with our kids, it’s part of his pre-game talk on the drive to school each morning.

And Lou embodies this remarkable, unparalleled enthusiasm. He’s setting the record. 

From the moment he wakes up in the morning until the moment he drifts off to sleep each evening, he runs. Sprints rather. Like a mini Forrest Gump.

A much perkier, much more vivacious Forrest Gump.

If Tess is Wednesday Addams, then Lou is the super bubbly kiss-ass male counselor at Camp Chippewa played by Peter MacNicol. Though a lot less nefarious. 

He cheers me on, he expresses his love and affection, he encourages everyone around him, and he eagerly asks what’s next on our agenda for the day. 

His Monday activities are the library and lunch at the big kids’ grade school. He runs at top speed, arms pumping, down the long corridor to the children’s corner, shouting out which books he wants to pick out along the way.

“I want a train book and a volcano book! And a dump truck book! And a snake book!”

And after nine years, I know exactly where to find each of those books. You’d be amazed how many dump truck books there are.

When we arrive to do lunch duty at Nate/Sam/Tess’s school, he sprints ahead, pulling me by the hand. Then, across four different lunch shifts, he zigzags from table to table, gleaning chips and cookies and occasional bad words, keeping everyone entertained with vigorous laughter and resounding energy.

On Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, Lou goes to school. Thank God. As soon as we pull into the drop-off line each morning, he unbuckles his seatbelt frantically, and hovers over my shoulder, one hand on the back of my seat and the other on the back of the passenger seat. He cranes his neck to watch the kids ahead of us—some he recognizes and others he doesn’t—and narrates the process. When it’s our turn, one of his teachers approaches the car to help him out, and he dives back into the third row to hide. 

Usually it’s Miss Jill who opens the back door. 

“Where’s my friend Lou?” she says cheerfully. 

He pops up immediately, laughing hysterically, full of excitement to surprise his teacher, as though she didn’t know to expect this every-single-day routine.

“Here I am!”

He maneuvers through the car, hops down onto the pavement, and before taking Miss Jill’s hand, he turns back, points right at me with a big grin and says:

“Goodbye, mom! You are the best!”

Then he turns back towards the building and struts inside, ready to attack the day.

“Thanks, Lou,” I mumble to myself as I pull away, trying not to smile too wide at the best compliment I’ll receive all day.

When I pick him up in the afternoons, I get a huge running jump hug, several kisses on my cheek and/or lips, and as I buckle him in, he almost always says, “Mom, I love my teachers and my friends.”

I can’t remember off the top of my head what our tuition is there, but it’s well worth it.

On Fridays, we have two super sensational activities. Sensational to Lou, anyway.

First, our Imperfect Foods box is delivered. Most of it is fruits and vegetables with an occasional snack for me, like a protein bar or dried seaweed chips, not super exciting for a 3 year-old’s palette. He’s definitely our best, most adventurous eater, but like most kids, he’d prefer a diet of Cheez-its and Lucky Charms. 

Still, he LOVES getting these boxes. I carry it in from the front porch, set it in the foyer, tear off the packing tape, and ask him to help me unpack it.  

He drops whatever truck-related activity he’s into at the moment and comes running, thrilled to be able to help!

“Yeah, sure!”

And then every single item he pulls out is as dramatic as though it were a winning lottery ticket.

“Mom! Broccoli! We got broccoli!”

Carrying one item at a time, he sprints into the kitchen and thrusts it in my face. I had to train him not to hurl the items across the kitchen, which is how he originally delivered them to me. 

“Lou! We can’t throw mangoes!” 

“Okay.”

Then after a pause, “Wait, why?” And he’s sincere, like he genuinely can’t understand why throwing fresh fruit and vegetables could be harmful. 

Once that box is unpacked and everything’s put away, we get ready to go to his favorite place on Earth—keep in mind he hasn’t been many places: Wonderscope, which is a very hands-on children’s museum about ten minutes away. We have a membership, we go a lot. They’re closed on Mondays, and since he’s in school three days, Friday is really our only chance to go. It’s usually his first request when I ask him what he wants to do that day. 

In the car on the way there, he leans forward, half backseat driving and half encouraging me, making me feel supported and loved and like I’m the best driver in the whole world. 

Last week, we happened to hit a lot of green lights on Wornall Road and each time, I got an electrifying “Yes! Good job, Mom! Green means go!”

“Thank you, Lou.”

Here I am, thinking I’m just obeying the traffic laws and the flow of cars around me, but somehow each move I made earned his emphatic blessing. 

Until I finally did hit a red light, around 103rd Street, when he said, just a touch of disappointment in his voice, ”Oh no, I guess you picked the wrong way to go today.”

But when we arrived about four minutes later, he was back to elated euphoria as he helped me navigate the lot and find a parking spot. 

And so, the lesson is… well, I actually don’t know what exactly the lesson is. We’re still learning. But I do know that any time anyone in our house hits a rough patch, Lou is usually the one to pull them through. His frenzied joy and his passion for everything are just so contagious. It’s hard to imagine life without him, though I’m sure our house would be a helluva lot cleaner.