A Christmas Reflection

Merry Christmas, everyone. 

Overall, we had a great holiday. Lots of laughter and joy and excitement. 

And a few tantrums and tears here and there, too.

Naturally, I was the first one to melt down, though I managed to suppress most of it. 

Admittedly, I was pretty exhausted from late-night wrapping the night before and a holiday party the night before that, so I started my Christmas morning on a sleep deficit. 

And though we told the kids to sleep in, Nate or Sam—not sure who—set their alarm for 7:30. 

Let the thudding and shrieking and furious unwrapping commence, then.

Within minutes, scraps of wrapping paper filled the air, and after it floated down to settle on the ground, the kids began looking for more packages to unwrap. Like savages.

Except Lou, actually. 

He had gotten a Paw Patrol tower from Santa, about three feet high, and since it was so large, Santa’s elves didn’t bother to wrap it. It sat on the floor, surrounded by all its accessory toys. Lou was fully engaged in this three year-old’s heaven. He was so busy moving the brightly colored cars and pups down the ramps and back up the elevator, he didn’t even notice his plump stocking, nor all the other wrapped gifts behind it.

“Lou, open your other presents!”

The Others jolted away from his state of flow and cheered him on as he tore through the rest of the blue penguin wrapping paper, tossing the trash to one side and the toys to the other with reckless abandon. 

It was overwhelming for me. Not just because of the growing heaps of trash all over the floor, but also because of the accumulating toys around me. 

It’s a stark contrast to how Tighe and I met—in a volunteer program where the mantra was to live simply. Poverty was a virtrue, and materialism and wealth were scorned. 

Not a totally bad sentiment, though pretty extreme, and it’s a far cry from the shiny new merchandise invading our living room.

And yes, I realize that I’m largely responsible for it.

We started our parenthood with the best of intentions there. We aimed for all the gift-giving to be experiences instead of material objects. Not just from us and Santa, but from grandparents, aunts, uncles, and godparents.

“Instead of buying a new toy for our kid, gift them an experience that they can share with you.”

Bowling, iFly, mini golf, museums, zoo memberships, trips to the movies or Disney On Ice or a football game.

And for a while, that worked. 

But let’s face it, that’s tough to keep up with. Especially now that we live in a different time zone from most of our family. It’s a lot easier to have Amazon deliver a package than to book a cross-country trip or coordinate schedules. 

And just as difficult, as our kids have aged, they’ve been exposed to commercialism and the gizmos and gadgets that their friends have. They’ve evolved into American consumers, always hungry for the next thing. 

Nate wants an Apple Watch and a cell phone. And they all have a list of expensive wants. 

Which they often don’t get, but it is a lifelong battle, apparently. See: my early blogs of arguing with Nate and Sam at Target, wrestling ninja turtles from their grip, and dragging sobbing toddlers from stores and such. Ah, those were the days.

At one point, when she started to get bored with her deluge of new toys that afternoon, Tess looked at me and said, “Why didn’t you and Tighe give us any gifts?”

Ugh. Dagger to the heart. 

After all the hours browsing on Amazon, all the time spent in stores, all the wrapping, listing and measuring, trying to make sure each kids’ stash was equal to the others. Or at least that we spent an approximate equal amount of money on each kid.

But actually she was onto something. We had tried to make Christmas a little lighter this year. With Tighe’s new business, finances are still a little tight. But we usually do give a few gifts from us: usually the boring stuff, like socks and underwear, maybe a new toothbrush, or pajamas. The necessities.

Still, though. She could have given us a little credit. Part of me wanted to grab her by the shoulders and yell in her face: “There is no Santa! Tighe and I bought you all of this!”

Anyway, a little coffee and an apple cinnamon pastry helped me overcome my inner killjoy and I fulfilled my mom duty of facilitating merriment and serving fun snacks throughout the day. We had nowhere to be, after all, and looked forward to a really chill day. Plus the wind chill was still sub-zero, so who wants to leave the house anyway? 

For the rest of the day, Tighe and I took turns troubleshooting new toys, reading instructions, and supplying batteries in between spurts of our own work, while the TV alternated between the NBA and NFL Christmas Day games. 

Everyone was in their various states of flow throughout the house, playing video games, painting nails, assembling jigsaw puzzles, coloring, trying on new clothes, and more.

By dinner time we were all tired again. Tighe had sous-vide a prime beef tenderloin, I had a new potato recipe, and, per the usual with tired, cranky kids, the kids were only interested in pushing buttons. You know, those invisible yet highly volatile buttons.

Milk was spilled. The beef tenderloin was highly, and negatively, critiqued. And the potatoes were rebuffed harder than Simon Cowell dismissing some no-talent assclown. Which is nonsense because they were pretty amazing potatoes actually.  And don’t even get me started on the roasted broccoli and carrots. If there’s one vegetable these guys hate more than potatoes, it’s broccoli.

Except Lou, of course. He’ll eat pretty much anything and he loves broccoli. 

But the straw that broke the camel’s back was the slurry of insults that went back and forth between Tess and Sam. To be honest, I don’t know what precipitated it. Sam was salty about the “mushiness” of the beef tenderloin and very vocal about it.

And that’s about when Tighe or I—who can remember who snapped first?—lost it. We took turns lecturing about gratitude and kindness. About showing appreciation, respect, and consideration for other people. You know, pretty much the same sermon we’ve been giving for almost eleven years now. Sooner or later, it’ll stick.

Tess, who was just exhausted from the excitement of the day and being out late on Christmas Eve, started dumping on Sam, too.

“Yeah, Sam, you could be grateful!” she said.

This coming from a girl who refuses our homemade meal almost every night, in favor of cheese and a banana. This from a girl who wondered aloud why we didn’t get her any gifts this year. 

“Tess, stay out of this,” I snapped at her. 

Within seconds, she was teary.

“My parents are so mean,” she whimpered, sinking down into her chair.

Yes, so mean for making sure you got everything you wanted on your Christmas list. We should be locked up.

But Sam, eager to deflect any more accusations, kept going after her, muttering another barb under his breath in her direction. Something about how she never cleans up her own messes nor does anything for herself. Which isn’t true, but every older sibling thinks that about their younger sibling.

Lou, standing on his chair, ketchup smeared across his face, a giant brioche dinner roll in each hand, crumbs spraying from his mouth, joined in. Just because. 

“Sam! Be quiet! Eat your steak!”

No one paid him any attention, so when the focus shifted back to Tess, Lou immediately switched teams.

“Yeah, Tess! You so dumb!”

And then the poor girl spilled her milk. The entire contents of her cup flooded the table, spilling onto her chair and to the floor.

I buried my face in my hands and said, “Well, Tess, this is your chance to prove to Sam that you can clean up your messes.”

“Yeah, Sam and Tess!” Lou piled on from the safety of his chair next to Tighe.

“Lou, be quiet!” Tighe clapped back.

After a few moments, Sam got noticeably uncomfortable, and I could tell that he was embarrassed, ashamed even, like he knew he was in the wrong. Like, truly knew. Sincerely understood how and why his actions, both to Tess and to Tighe and me, were hurtful. Or at least insensitive. He perked up a bit and tried to initiate a cheerier conversation.

Which was a little bit of consolation. 

But the real consolation came at bedtime that night, and not just because we were moments away from a little bit of peace and quiet. Though that always helps.

I kissed Lou on top of his head and said, “good night, Lou. You’re my special guy.”

“And you’re my special guy,” he replied. “Mom, did you have a good Christmas?”

“Yeah, Lou, I did.”

“Was it your specialist Christmas ever?”

“Hmm,” I replied, genuinely thinking about my answer. I can’t remember a bad Christmas and I’ve never thought to rank them before.

“Yeah, Lou, I think that was the best Christmas.”

“Did you get any presents?”

“Yeah, I got a new sweatshirt and a sweater.”

“To keep you warm?”

“Yes, to keep me warm when it’s cold outside.”

“Aww,” he said, caressing my cheek. “That’s so nice for you.”

And the next day, the 26th, was a much better day. Aside from the moment Tess bumped her ear into the corner of the table. And when Nate toppled off a second floor space heater. And when Lou exploded three hot chocolate bombs all over the kitchen floor. The same amount of together time, but we slept later

But no dinnertime milk spills! It was a good day.

Season's Beatings

“Do we have any white eggs? Not the brown. And do we have any coloring to color the eggs?”

“You mean Easter egg dye?”

“Yeah.”

It was Tess. She was twisting her mouth and clasping her hands together, like, being December and all, she knew it was a long shot, but she was really, really hoping I had some stashed away somewhere. 

Which, actually, I may have. Leftovers from last spring or something.

But no, Tess, we’re not dyeing Easter eggs. 

I can barely wrap my head around the fact that there are only five days until Christmas and all four kids will be home for all of them.

And because the “high” temps are in the single digits all week, I can’t send them out in the neighborhood. Suddenly the statements “go ride your bike to Ben’s house” or “go jump on the trampoline” have become child abuse.

I’d normally plan some outings or go run errands myself, but it’s too cold. I’m not leaving the house either. And quite frankly, we’ve done all those things. We saw Santa, we did our Christmas shopping, we hit up the Union Station Christmas display. Lou and I do Wonderscope and Science City all the freaking time. We did gingerbread houses, we baked, we’ve watched just about all the Christmas movies—even the ones that strongly allude to “no Santa”—and sipped hot chocolate. 

I shot all my “killing time” wads too early. 

In reality, I have a few more outings we could take, but again, it’s freezing outside. Though, at the moment, Sam’s in only his underwear and Lou’s totally pantless. 

So now we’ll just sit and wait.

For Christmas. 

Tess goes through her countdown every night at bedtime. 

“And when I wake up, there will be four days. Then three. Then two. Then it’ll be Christmas Eve!”

She’s at the ripest age for Christmas and Santa and all that. 

Nate has a few basketball practices sprinkled throughout the week. Just enough to keep him occupied, so he doesn’t start bullying The Others. Nate requires competition and physical activity to thrive. Which is why we keep signing him up for tournaments, tryouts, leagues, teams, and celebrity death matches. 

Which is why he walks around the house dribbling a basketball. And rollerblading in circles with Sam. 

And he balances his jock side with his nerd side with books. This week, he’s totally consumed with The Hunger Games series. He’s about to finish the third book, which is great because we can finally watch the last two movies with the kids. And that’ll kill a few more hours.

Though I think the last one may have contributed to Lou’s night terrors. Oh, well. We can sleep in all week. ALL WEEK.

The kids have arranged and rearranged all the presents under the tree about 17 thousand times. Without peeking. Which is impressive. They’re mostly gifts from Tighe’s parents and siblings, so each kid has a few wrapped packages down there. 

One of the packages, addressed to Sam, has a little tear on one corner—just enough so that you can see some navy blue under the snowman wrapping paper. 

From shaking it, Sam has deduced, correctly I believe, that it’s a Lego set. So he took out a ruler and measured the dimensions of the box. 

Then he pulled out his handy iPad, logged onto Amazon, and started searching for Lego sets whose boxes match those dimensions and that navy blue color.

He’s narrowed it down to two or three. Detective Sam. 

You need a murder solved, Sam’s your guy. Especially if the motive, weapon, or crime scene itself involved Legos. Otherwise, I imagine he’d give up. To go play with Legos or something.

And Lou kills time by hurling objects across the house. Like he’s literally trying to kill something. We’ve already lost quite a few Christmas ornaments that way. 

Nate’s indoor basketballing doesn’t help that either. 

I don’t know whether the advent calendars make the waiting better or worse. Nate and Sam each got Lego advent calendars with a themed mini figure for each day of December. And Tess got one with a small Disney book for each day. 

Sam, impatient and greedy, opened the contents of his entire calendar on the third day, after much agony.

“Should I just do it? Should I open them all? Or should I wait? Oooh, I can’t decide.”

He was prancing in place in the dining room after school, trying his hardest to peer into the remaining, unopened Advent squares without spoiling the surprises. Delayed gratification isn’t his strong suit.

“Sam. Sam, don’t do it!” Nate was advising from the other side of the room, where he was standing guard over his own calendar.

“Then you won’t have anything to open for the rest of Advent!” Nate was really distraught. Sam’s impulsiveness really concerns him. I foresee similar conversations twenty-five, thirty years from now, as Nate’s trying to convince him to save for retirement instead of buying a boat or a sports car or, God forbid, a new Lego set.

“So you have to think,” I said in my calmest, most rational voice from my seat at the table, barely glancing up from my typing, “what would Future Sam want you to do? If you open them all right now, what would Tomorrow Sam say?”

But before I could even finish my words, the box was being torn apart, and each of the small plastic bags, almost simultaneously, sliced open with scissors. He’s slower than a sloth out in the real world, but when it comes to Legos, he’s a really fast worker.

“Sam, noooooooo!” Nate brought both hands to his face, shaking his head in disgust, as if his Christmas has just been ruined as well.

And so, every morning since, Nate, always the first one down in the mornings—he sets his alarm for 6:30 so he can do his homework—waits for Sam to tumble, reluctantly down the steps. Sam’s in no hurry to get to school.

Once he’s sure Sam’s downstairs and relatively lucid, Nate makes a big spectacle of the Opening of the Advent Calendars. It might as well be Jesus’s actual birth.

“Tess. Shall we?” he says, helping her situate her very large calendar on the table. She’s oblivious to the game he’s playing with Sam, but very excited to see which Disney story book she gets to not read that day.

Sam, used to ignoring Nate’s self-righteousness and manipulation, doesn’t even look up as Nate arranges his growing assortment of Lego mini-figures, narrating the whole process loudly, in an effort to make Sam jealous. 

His efforts have been largely unsuccessful until a few hours ago, when an argument between Lou and Sam somehow spilled over to include Nate as well. Lots of diplomatic relations gone wrong. 

Sam had been threatening to destroy everything Lou holds dear.

“I’m gonna kill your mom and your dad and Tess and Nate,” Sam was taunting Lou, who was mostly ignoring the threats. 

“...and Rocket and the Rescue Bots!”

And that’s when Lou snapped. Sam had taken it too far. Rescue Bots is his new favorite show. As of yesterday, anyway.

Lou can usually manhandle Sam pretty easily, partially because Sam’s the king of psychological warfare, not physical. He’s not really sure how to fight with a 3 year-old. He hesitates to fight back because, obviously, he doesn’t want to actually hurt him. 

Nate, sensing an attack on Sam, went to pile on with his own grievances against him. Until suddenly it became exclusively a Sam Versus Nate battle, with Lou jumping up and down and shrieking alternating yelps of encouragement from the sideline.

And that’s when a battle to microwave each other's Legos ensued. 

Lots of yelling, lots of microwave door slamming, beeping from all the buttons, and Legos smashing to the floor in the scuffle. It was loud and chaotic. 

Thank God no one actually started the microwave. Which was surely intentional on their parts, not a function of their ineptitude. They both know how to heat things up—Nate, his daily bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, and Sam, his daily hot chocolate. 

Nope, they understand that the last thing we need right now is yet another visit from our friends at the fire station.

But I should probably double-check that there are no errant Legos stranded in the microwave next time I go to nuke some leftover pizza. 

May the anticipation that is the Christmas season continue…

Edit: Minutes after I posted this blog, I caught Lou setting fire to today’s batch of Christmas cards that had just arrived in the mail. Guess I was wrong about that fire department. We might be long overdue for a visit.

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.

Back to the Urinal

Okay, it’s time to write again. 

I just kinda need to.

And I enjoy it.

And, to be honest, it’s been a great way to document my kid’s baby and toddler years. Nate and Sam love to go back to PBU and peer at their old selves. 

The Ninja Turtle years. 

The temper tantrum years. 

The totally illogical and nonsensical conversation years. 

They’re at the age when they see the humor in all of that. 

And it jogs our collective Greenhalgh memories.

“Remember that time Nate wouldn’t take his medicine?”

“Remember when Sam said his penis was big? In church?”

“Remember Lotion Robot?”

And I love all that. It’s fun to reflect on those silly stories and recall others 

But sometimes I re-read a story myself and wonder: “Ew, why did I write that sentence like that?” 

Or “why did I pick that word?” or “why did I think that was funny or notable?”

Even though the stories are about my kids, they’re actually more revealing about ME.

Erin.

In that time.

In that phase of my life.

Which was a struggle.

Which was why I wrote.

It makes much more sense to me now, almost eight years after I originally started blogging: I needed to write because I was so lonely. 

I was suddenly in a new city. 

I had quit my job to move across the country and stay home with my toddler and newborn and in doing so, I lost my sense of purpose. 

I lost the self-actualization I had reached by coaching and teaching and regularly spending time with the family and friends that I loved.

I had reached the top of Maslow’s pyramid and jumped off. 

And at the bottom, spread eagle on the ground, I was a shattered mess and I didn’t know how to pick myself up and start climbing again. 

And the postpartum hormones didn’t help.

[If anyone wants details on my messiness at the time, ask me. I’m happy to share. Just know that I never wanted to hurt myself or anyone else, it wasn’t like that. I was just lonely.]

So writing was my bridge back, my connection to people and to myself. It was therapy. 

I saw the absurdity and the comedy in it all and I needed to write about it. 

To process it and to share it. 

Nate went through a phase where he insisted on wearing socks on his hands. That’s funny. What a weirdo.

Sam morphing from an infant into a toddler was quite the transition. Even once he became verbal and quite articulate, he couldn’t get a word in because Nate never stopped talking. Still hasn’t, actually. So Sam just emerged as this silent, quirky figure, conducting his own scientific experiments in the background. 

And Tess. Tess’s toddler years were tough to document because so much of her personality is just disdain. I mean, I don't think she actually feels the amount of disdain she gives off. I think she just has resting bitch face. She gives people the side eye like it’s her job. 

Ask her whether she’d like to go to Disney World for a week and she’ll give you the same apathetic response as she would if you’d just asked her whether she’d like to eat a pound of raw broccoli. 

She’d probably love to go to Disney World and she’d hate the broccoli, but you’d never know it to look at her. She’d just scowl.

And then each week after sharing my blog, I would get high on the positive, supportive comments that rolled in from friends and family members.

It was a reminder that people love me. I’m funny and intelligent and I have value and purpose.

And so mad props to the internet, social media, and cell phones. They all get a bad rap for all their negative functions and dysfunctions, but they saved me. They were a means of connection and positivity when I was at my lowest. 

So thank you, Al Gore, for inventing the internet. 

Lou’s baby and toddler years have been less documented. I’m not lonely in the same way anymore. I’m not as desperate for therapy and connection. I have friends and people I enjoy chatting with and a greater sense of purpose again.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still climbing back on top of Maslow’s hierarchy and I’ve a ways to go still, but I’m getting there. 

To reach the peak twice in a lifetime is no small feat. 

Who knows, maybe I’ll even find myself at the bottom again and have to reach the summit a third or even fourth time. 

But in the meantime, I’m going to write again. Both professionally and as a hobby.