Dear Lukey 3

Dear Lukey,

Happy birthday, my love! Can I offer you some Gris? Or some Yo Yo? No? 

Oh God. I just used your least favorite word ever: no. Don’t freak out! Deep breaths! I’ll start over!

Happy birthday! You are three today (how?!) and I’m going to remind you of some of the things you love SO MUCH and….let’s say, some things you love a smidge less at this point in your life. 

LOVE

Gris, a.k.a. Sprite. I let myself have one Sprite every day with my lunch. I drink it from a cup with a straw. Correction: I used to drink one Sprite every day with my lunch from a cup with a straw. From the first day you pointed at it, looked at me with those Kewpie doll eyes and said, “Sip?” I have not been able to drink Sprite at lunch. Or any time you’re conscious. It’s cute because you refuse to say the word “Sprite” and instead call it “Gris.” It’s less cute because, I mean...I want some Gris. 

Bluey and Muppet Babies. I can’t say which one of your two favorite TV shows gets top billing because I never know. You’ll wake up from a nap, blurry-eyed with the imprint of your crocheted blankie blaring on your red cheeks. I’ll snuggle you close, take a deep breath, and hope to God I’m correctly suggesting the thing you want to watch based on the thing you asked me for 37 times in a row over the previous few hours. I’ll hold my breath, whisper “Muppet Babies?” then duck and cover as you screech “BLUEY!!!!!!!” and burst into uncontrollable tears for the next foreseeable future. (Sidenote: you call Bunsen and Beaker “BossyBeagle” and it makes me so so happy.)

Wrestling ( in real life, not on TV. Yet). Every day at 2:34 p.m., I hug you close, kiss your cheeks, and tell you goodbye. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, sighing deeply and fighting tears. That’s because every day, at 2:35 p.m., your sister comes home from school and the sweet, lovey, calm boy I just spent the entire day snuggling morphs into The Hulk...if The Hulk was possessed by a demon...who had recently been set on fire...IN HELL. The only outlet for your newfound rage is to beat the ever-loving life out of Libby, who, God bless her, only wants to have a snack and chill on her damn iPad. This does not sit well with you -- being an aflame Hulk demon and all -- and you attempt to tackle, kick, punch, and Hurricanrana your poor, weary Sis until she cries and I scream and you cry and I cry on the inside (or sometimes in the pantry). You also do this thing to Dad and me from time to time, when you get right up in our grills, nose to nose, and menacingly whisper something we can only decipher as, “You No Say.” We have no idea what it means, but we suspect it’s something along the lines of, “Shit’s about to go DOWN.” It’s both terrifying and adorable. BTW, if you ever take your dad’s love of the WWE to the next level and decide you want to be in the ring, you can totally steal the whole demon-possessed Hulk character idea. The “on fire” thing might be tricky, but I’m envisioning flame-patterned spandex. You can even use one of your current nicknames: Lukey Smash!

This is how you like to wind down each night.

Pizza/yo yo, or "yogurt"/ fruit cups: These are your favorite foods in the world and you eat them almost every day, multiple times a day. You down a side of yo yo with every breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sometimes, yo yo is breakfast, lunch and dinner. It makes a perfect bedtime snack. It’s nice after naps. Basically, if any nutritionist out there is doing a study to find out if a human can exist on a yogurt-only diet, you are living proof that that is indeed possible. Pretty much the same for fruit cups. I can work all day on a meal of tossed salad, fresh bread, roast chicken with all the sides, and homemade pie, and you will take one look at it, then with hope in your voice, ask, “fruit cup?” Your relationship with pizza is more love/hate. You love when it’s around and hate when it’s not, meaning we cannot even say the word “pizza” in our own home because if you hear the word and a slice is not immediately produced, you lose your damn mind. For now, we call it “P-word,” though I suspect you are close to cracking our code, sophisticated as it may be. I have nearly thrown my arm out of its socket lunging for the remote to switch the channel when Pizza Hut commercials come on. I have a feeling delivery drivers will know us by name by this time next year. 

Haircuts: This is a new one because up until your last haircut, I had to physically restrain you as if I was The Rock and you were John Cena circa 2012-13 WWE. There was flailing; there were tears -- with us, not with The Rock and John Cena, though I never really watched their matches so maybe, IDK (your father is twitching right now). You would sit on my lap in the waiting area and sob, “Go home? Go home? Go home?” over and over again until my heart shattered into so many pieces, I was sure I would clutch you to my chest and rush to the door, shouting, “Not my son! NOT MY SON!” a la some Lifetime movie I have not seen yet but would gladly write on spec (potential title: Clipped from My Grip). But then, on our most recent visit, you sat calmly on my lap in the waiting room, just kinda looking around and taking it all in. Then, when Miss Leigh Ann said she was ready for you, you hopped off my lap, strode to the barber chair, climbed up onto the booster seat and sat still for the entire thing. I watched, mouth agape, waiting with a Dum-Dum in one hand and Disney+ on my phone in the other, ready to shove one or both in your face the second your inevitable meltdown ignited. It never happened. How? Or why? Or how? I have no idea, and neither did Miss Leigh Ann, who looked at me aghast after she was done cutting, cocked her head to one side, and said, “Can I….style him?” to which I took two steps back and held my hands up, stick-em-up style, and said, “That’s up to you.” She approached you much like a person would approach a monkey holding a loaded 9mm -- with extreme caution and apprehension, stopping every few movements to instinctively cover her head. You let her and when she was done, you looked just like the high school quarterback who’s looking for a nerdy girl to makeover in some terrible late ‘90s movie (probably one that I loved at the time but would cringe if my daughter saw now). 

You would definitely be the popular kid who realized by the end of the movie that he never even really wanted to play college sports but instead wanted to pursue his passion of making furniture out of used lacrosse sticks or something. 

THINGS YOU LOVE NOT SO MUCH

The word “no.” 

That’s it. Just the one thing. You hate it with fervor beyond human comprehension, yet it’s something you find yourself contending with on an extremely frequent basis. The following is a typical scenario that occurs roughly every 17 minutes in our home:

You: *throws something across the room that barely misses our sleeping dog*

Me: “Lukey, N-”

You: EEEIIIIIIAAAAAAA! WAAAAHHHHH!!!! 

Me (attempting to remain rational and reasonable): Luke, you almost hurt Wilson. You can’t just throw things

You: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *smacks the couch while maintaining direct eye contact with me*

Me (failing at being rational and reasonable and using a full banshee voice while shoving my face one inch from yours): STOP IT RIGHT NOW! 

You: 

Me: OK?

You: OK. 

*Repeat forever

You are learning, however, that there are ways you can avoid the evil no word. Let’s say you want to watch your 589th episode of Bluey for the day. I say no because if I watch it for one more second, I’m going to toss the TV off the deck. You pout, but I ignore it. The next thing I know, you’ve climbed up on my lap, your head is on my shoulder, your hands are holding mine, and you look up at me with those dreamy blue eyes, and whisper so faintly that I have to lean in. When I do, you utter one word: “pwease?” 

The next thing I know, Bluey is on the TV, you’re back to playing with your toys and I have no recollection of the previous 30 seconds. 

Kudos, child. It only took you three years to figure me out. Because when it comes to my Woo-key (which is how you introduce yourself because you can’t say L’s and I die every time), you’ve got my number. You also have my heart. And I know everyone says three can be even worse then two and I’m sure that’s true (though...how?! **I have a feeling future me will read this and laugh and laugh**) but I’m still excited for what the next year brings as you continue to grow into the person you will become. If today is any indication, that person will be super funny, super lovey, and super sure of what he wants in this world. 

I love you now and then and forever, 

Mommy

Dear Libby 6

Hello, My Gorgeous Girl,

This week, we registered Luke for preschool. The same preschool where you went and led all its teachers to expect LaBars to be patient, subservient goody two shoes. 

(Insert image of Luke laughing maniacally here)

I know, I know. You’re probably thinking, “Wait, isn’t this my annual birthday letter? Why are we talking about Luke right off the bat? All we do is talk about Luke. He gets everything! Gaaah!!!!” And you would be right. But I started this way to get to this: your former teacher, who was overseeing registration, asked how you were doing in kindergarten. When Dad replied, “Great!” she had a follow-up.

“Is she still helping everyone?” 

“What do you mean?” Dad asked. 

“When she was in my class, I always sat her next to a student who I thought might need a little extra help or encouragement," she said. "She was so great about sensing when someone needed her. She is such a good helper.”

I honestly can’t think of a more accurate way to describe you. I mean, I might add a few other attributes: boundless empath, energetic goofball, endlessly patient (for the most part) big sister. But the part of your personality that I have adored so much since you were small continues to shine through in you every day. You are always thinking of others and how you can make them feel happy, safe, and loved. 

God knows we need all of that kind of positivity we can get these days. It’s been a rough year, girl. We are in the middle (maybe the end? Please, God, let it be nearly the end) of a pandemic that brought your second year of preschool to an abrupt early end and made the start of kindergarten more about social distancing and hand sanitizer than noisy cafeterias and Red Rover. Yet that did very little to hamper your excitement.

Who was ready for kindergarten? This girl. 

Even in a mask, I can tell your facial expression says, “God, Mo-om! Leave me alone. I’m tryna get on the bus. GOD!”

Regardless of things being a little unconventional, you can’t get enough school. You love learning. You love your teacher. You love riding the bus. But most of all, above every single other aspect of anything to do with the educational system in this country, you love Jonah. 

Jonah has been the main focus of your attention since the day you were seated next to him in class. In our “keep six feet away from anything that breathes” society, that meant he was the closest person you had to talk to, to laugh with, and ultimately, to envision an entire future with. You would come home every day and doodle in your sketchbooks image after image of you two dancing or holding hands with thought bubbles full of hearts and happy faces. Some took your love story to a whole level. They say a picture speaks a thousand words, so I will just leave a particularly interesting one that you drew right here. 

That’s exactly what I looked like pregnant.

Girlfriend, I have never, ever in my more than a decade with your father, seen him rendered utterly speechless until the moment you handed him this drawing. He was flabbergasted, dumbfounded, downright gobsmacked. It was hilarious. 

And while Jonah seems to return at least some level of your infatuation, sadly, he is not the boy in this world who loves you the absolute most. That distinction lies solidly with your brother. 

I have never seen another person more in awe of another human than Lukey is with you. Everything you do, he wants to do. Everything you say, he parrots. Everywhere you go, he goes. Every toy you want to play with, he wants too, often at the exact same time. 

Writing this all out makes it suddenly very apparent why the relationship is more than slightly one-sided. I mean, you clearly love him. You give him hugs and let him wrestle you and chase you and dance and sing and laugh and scream and drive me crazy with you. But I often catch you shooting me a “OK now make this stop” look that only an elder sibling can understand. If you two are anything like me and my brother, this phase will last for a few more years, followed by a few years of intense, raging hatred (ask Uncle Eric about the time I maimed him on a plane to Phoenix. Or the time he lifted a Power Wheel convertible over his head Hulk-style and launched it into my legs. True stories), followed by a general acceptance, followed by one of the closest friendships of your life. I promise—just give it two decades, three tops, and you’ll be ready to reciprocate all the love he feels toward you right now. 

Speaking of growing older, I cannot believe how independent and self-sufficient you are becoming at the ripe old age of 6. Every day, it seems like you need me less and less and I need you more and more. You help me every day with Luke. You are my assistant in the kitchen. You create beautiful artwork that makes me smile and nearly always ends up on the fridge so I can admire it again and again. Basically, you’re always finding new ways to fill my life with love and joy, just as you always have. You never stop amazing me, and you never will. 

I love you more than you can know,

Mom