(de)Composition

Here at the end of April in Brooklyn, each morning greets me with some new miracle.  Today, suddenly, dogwoods.  Pink and white, they open their square petals to the sky like plates on the hands of expert waiters bearing delicacies to celestial diners.  My mother used to recall lying with me on the grass in front of the post office, gazing up at the dogwoods.  (She later corrected my memory of her memory -- rewind, erase, insert cherry blossoms.)  In any case, a fleeting moment of me at three, hand in hand with my mother, bound by memory to every spring's bloom.

The discovery of a tulip opening in my planter this morning hits me with a wonder akin to that I felt when I first saw Duncan's ribs rippling in gray-blue ultrasonic water as the technician waved her magic wand over my pelvis.  What force compels these structures to take shape?  I cannot grasp their emergence in the flow of time.  If I had stayed up all night, flashlight trained on that tulip, would I have witnessed the precise moment its petals pushed their way into the world?  Would 24-hour ultrasound surveillance reveal the moment Duncan sprouted ribs?

Structure can fail, as Jordy and I painfully learned when we lost our first baby to a renal system anomaly discovered by ultrasound at 16 weeks.  Until then I'd never considered the possibility that this diligent construction, molecule by molecule, could go wrong.  Ever since I am filled with awe that it ever goes right.  Every March when daffodils surface through decaying leaves and rotting trash on the perimeter of Prospect Park, I feel a surge of gratitude for their epic conquest over the forces of entropy.

But I must give entropy its due.  Yesterday I mustered the courage to tackle the compost.  In one of my well-intentioned and totally unrealistic efforts to tred more lightly on the planet, several years ago (who's counting?) I asked my mother for an urban composter.  I had constructed a clothesline in the backyard and had considered starting a worm colony in the basement (at this Jordy drew the line). So I did some research, found a tidy little drum that would fit in the corner of our back yard, and set out on this new ecological adventure.  True, the compost bowl on the kitchen counter attracted flies; also true, the composter had something of a swampy aroma when you got close (not hard to do in a yard the size of a suburban master bath).  Minor prices to pay for saving the planet.

In my zeal I jammed every bit of green matter I clipped from the garden into the drum.  I turned the thing religiously for aeration; I added shredded newspaper; I avoided citrus and meats.  The kids enjoyed opening the hatch to spy on the colonies of bugs taking residence, then running away, noses pinched, screaming, "Ewwww!"  I was proud to carry on my mother's legacy at the environmental vanguard -- as a kid, I loved the rainbow sticker on the back window of our Ford station wagon that signified access to a recycling center, a obscure counter-culture in Greenwich, CT in the early '70s. My kids would take their care of Mother Earth to the next level.  What a good mother I must be!

By the end of the first summer, it was clear something had gone awry.  Much to my surprise, even the structure of decomposition can fail.  The English ivy vines I'd jammed in there were as intact as the tropical hardwoods they use for the boardwalk planks at Coney Island.  I was discouraged.  Winter was coming; I would leave it for next year.  But next year arrived, and the next.  Another baby came. I was busy.  The tangled vines mocked me whenever I dared open the hatch.  Eventually the composter became nothing more than a jungle-gym feature for the boys to climb, granting visual access over the fence to the neighbors' backyard and at least one seriously bloodied limb upon falling from its slippery top.  It turned out I had bought yet another giant hunk of plastic that would just end up clogging a landfill.

Yesterday (three? four? years later), I resolved to clear the thing out once and for all.  Maybe I'd assuage my guilt by offering it up on ParkSlopeParents.com to some other ambitious new parent eager to instill ecological consciousness in their offspring.  I suited up in gloves and glasses, readied a contractor bag, armed myself with a shovel, and lifted the hatch, prepared for ultimate putrescence. Lo and behold, the wonders of nature!  A few ivy vines were still discernable, and some egg shells, OK and some rubber bands and banana stickers, but the rest of this stuff looked remarkably like soil. Even more remarkable, there was no stench, in fact hardly any smell at all.  Clumps of various shades of brown made me ponder the coffee grinds after sleepless nights with new babies, carrot tops from farmers markets in summers past, and New York Times reports of the financial collapse, or perhaps Obama's triumph over Hillary Clinton in the primaries, deposited here long ago, now ready to replenish my flower beds.

Last night I had the rare chance to share a bedtime snuggle with Duncan; the younger brothers usually demand theirs first, and Duncan, who no longer even wants one most nights, easily concedes.  But the younger ones had passed out quickly after a day of vigorous play at the Botanic Garden with their Nana and Pappa and Vanderbilt playground.  I was about the leave the room when Duncan whispered,  "Can I have a snuggle?"  As I laid down beside his body, now not much shorter than my own, he said out of nowhere, "You know, Mom, we really don't have to worry about it, because there's nothing that gets broken that can't be fixed."  I pondered this a moment, unsure if we were talking about Legos, hearts, or something else.  What about when someone dies, I asked.  "It's actually OK, because their body just turns back into dirt, and then God just blows some more spirit into them, and they turn back into people."  He laughed. "So if you think about it, I just might be your great great great great great great grandfather!"  Who knows?  I agreed, remembering Reeve's comment last week: Upon leaving his friend Margot's house, Reeve stopped on the front porch, looked around a moment, and said, "I didn't think the future would be like this."

I had no idea the future would be like this seven years ago in Venice, California when our baby Duncan, sixteen months old, sang his first word, "Blue!"  I recognized the pitch; he'd learned it from the blue key on his little Leap Frog Learning Table, which had also aided his first independent steps by giving him solid support at just the right height.  We've been on a tear to clear out our basement for an over-due renovation where the forces of entropy have been hard at work:  Our stairs, which list to the north, sprout greenery in summer months; the waste stack for a toilet above is held together with silicone; and removal of the steel shelves with years of accumulated stuff has unearthed a crumbling foundation.  What to do with all that stuff?  Anything with life left in it -- light fixtures, Mason Jars, old books, the grill -- has gone to the street where, in the mysterious ecosystem of New York City, it walks off with people who can imagine uses for it.  But what to do with a grimy Leap Frog Learning Table that no longer sings "Blue!" or anything else, no matter how fresh the batteries?  Or the Fisher Price baby chair with rice cereal ground into its fabric from Reeve's first foray into solid food?  After several days on the stoop, no takers.  Time to let go.

After a gloriously sunny weekend, it's raining this Monday.  As Duncan and Reeve bounded down the stairs for the bus, I almost stopped them to say goodbye to their little table with its trombone-playing froggie and the baby chair with its silly bumble bees.  But they didn't notice them in the piles of garbage waiting at the curb.  I decided it wasn't my place to force my nostalgia on them.  After waving them off I walked Harpo, hoping his bowel's distress after ingesting one of Tucker's dirty diapers yesterday was resolving itself.  As we turned the corner toward home, I heard the roar of the garbage truck.  My heart seized with the thought that I must rescue the Leap Frog and the Bees, it was all a mistake, I wasn't ready after all.  But I held back, watching the powerful compactor of the truck crush the baby chair's little green aluminum tubes.  I let the tears go, ridiculous as I knew them to be.  And took solace as I looked back and realized it was the recycling truck that had claimed them, not garbage.  Perhaps God, or some factory somewhere, will blow a little spirit back into them, and someone drinking from a plastic soda bottle will wonder why they have the sudden urge to sing, "Blue!"

Stoller Butt Syndrome: Portal to Esoteric Wisdom

My friend Cindy listened kindly as we waited for the bus in front of Joe's Pizza.  She'd heard it before, I was sure.  I've lost track of whom I've told what.

"It started as pain in my left foot when I'd get out of bed in the morning, a sharp pressure, like my foot had turned into a grape while I slept, now being squished under my weight to near bursting."  The intensification had been gradual; over weeks, my subconscious had invented explanations that, by the time the pain crossed the threshold to consciousness, my better judgment couldn't refute:  It was a circulation issue, a hydraulic problem caused by my still-nursing infant, who often fell asleep across my arm, leaving it tingly in the morning.  I had had lots of aches and pains from bearing three children in my late 30s.  Annoying, but this too would pass.

Full disclosure:  I was also training for the New York Marathon, which would have been the first suspect for any normal person, but I would not then, or now, let running take the blame for what would be revealed as "plantar fasciitis" and much more.  My mother and I have been engaged in a years-running battle over the virtues v. evils of running.  I maintain, if I have to get bionic knees someday, as have my mother and her siblings (none of whom we runners), I'd rather run my way to the OR.  

But I was stubbornly ignoring whatever my feet were trying to tell me.  After admitting to myself that it got worse after long runs, so might not be a side-effect of night nursing, I started to investigate.  "Plantar fasciitis" came up early as a possible culprit, but my ignorant self confused it with plantar warts, which visual examination quickly disqualified.  A pre-med student once upon a time, I love the mystery of diagnosis, but I am also descended of stoic Yankees, with one strain of Christian Science mixed in, who milked cows through all kinds of undiagnosed pains without a whimper; plus I'd postponed running the NY marathon once already when I got pregnant with Tucker, so like hell was I going to miss it again; which is all to say, I was my own worst enemy.

It turns out the hip bone really is connected to the knee bone, and the knee bone really is connected to the... ankle bone, and so on.  Six months after the marathon, after which I'd stopped running all together to let it heal, the pain was not relenting at all.  If anything, it was getting worse.  I finally went to a Manhattan podiatrist who informed me that my other area of chronic pain -- namely, the underside of my butt -- could be related.  The butt pain intensified whenever I pushed the double stroller, i.e. 100 pounds of boy, metal, and yogurt-encrusted canvas, which I did for an average five miles a day at that time.  At this point in the story, my friend Cindy nods sympathetically and says, diplomatically, "You do have a very... athletic... way of pushing that stroller."  It's because I'm always late, I say, suddenly self-conscious of my stroller-pushing form (do I stick my butt out too far?  why hasn't anyone ever stopped me and let me know that I'm a spaz, or worse?).  Where was I when they taught new moms the right way to push a stroller?

It also turns out that, not only are all the parts connected, but they never forget all the bad things you've done to them, and when you reach a certain age, they feel entitled to remind you.  1983: Cold rainy field hockey practice --  pop, my hamstring. 1988:  The Stanford Dish, finals done, end of freshman year -- my friend Elizabeth and I stumble back to campus after two bottles of wine, now in pitch darkness, when rip, my ankle rolls over into a ditch.  1997: IT band pain from Big Sur marathon.   2004-Present: Pushing, hauling, heaving, nursing, twisting, crooking, lifting kids, strollers, bikes, groceries, knotweed, dogs, phones, etc. usually with another kid stashed on my left hip (need right for stirring the pot! answering the phone!).  2013:  Butt and foot pain metastasizes to right lower quad and left hip, with possible SI joint involvement (is that the popping sound in certain yoga postures?).   At last, I submitted to a chiropractor, who takes one look at me and pronounces my right leg shorter than my left.

What?  How many pediatricians should have detected this?  This would explain so many imbalances in my life.  Was this a genetic anomaly, or a development problem?  Had my right foot been gotten stuck somewhere in my mother's womb?  Would I need those special shoes with the extra platform on one side?  Dr. Safko cut me off.   You are like a car that came out of the factory perfectly aligned, he explained, but you've hit some bumps and potholes along the road and lost your alignment.  You can drive like that for years -- you're young, your body compensates -- until one day, out of nowhere, you have a blow-out.   

As I've stood in the breakdown lane waiting for roadside assistance these past months, other cars whizzing pitilessly past me, the vulnerability of my physical being has set in.  Our biologist friend, Harry, calls the 40s "the age of the crumblies."  Sigh.   I submitted to weekly chiropractic therapy this winter, involving electrification and excruciating massage (Dr. Safko's welcoming words: "This is not a spa").  I was encouraged when he declared, after three sessions, "Your alignement is great!  No leg discrepancies!" Until I injured something new while performing a therapeutic twist at home on my mat, and my hip, quad and butt started bickering again.  I was discouraged.   

But there is a silver lining to my ominous cloud.  My running friend Jimmy Moore, who ran until his death at 90, used to say pain is our bodies' way of talking to us, and we are wise to listen.  I found this profoundly true in child birth; the pain guided me to what I needed to do, and my body revealed its own stores of relief.  So why have I been I so resistent to listening now?   

Like most people, I find it hard to face time passing, to accept that my body no longer just heals by itself while I keep pushing it, to deal with the ways my life's structure wreaks low-grade havoc on my body, a structure I have felt powerless to change.  To add insult to my injuries, I've always found middle-aged people who can only talk about their aches and pains to be bores, and yet here I was (am), joining their ranks.  Hence poor Cindy, stuck at a bus stop listening to my tale (and tail) of woe, probably again.  Hence you poor people, reading this blog post!

But I decided to commit this tedious story to print paradoxically to let it go.  I don't want to forget the worthy lessons of this chapter, lest healing come and I be tempted to charge back into older bad habits; rather, I hope to strengthen some of these new, better habits so I don't have to keep thinking about them all the time (and can become an old person with a broader spectrum of interests!).  It turns out I am not powerless to change the structure of my life after all, but I have to start with my head.  I've been frustrated not to "find the fix," instead of realizing that the fix is a process rather than a destination.  From now on, some body part or other will always be chattering at me with information I don't want to hear, but if I listen instead of shutting it up, I'll come out better in the end.  Small changes make big differences.  I go to yoga first, then deal with household chores.  I don't pinch the cellphone in my neck while making dinner.  I sit crisscross apple sauce while watching Friday Night Lights, my hips slowly recovering lost mobility.  And I don't push the double stroller any more, for which my butt thanks me.  But now it is telling me to get off it, so I will.    

Pause

The most important button on the DVD player to Tucker is, without a doubt, Pause.  He cannot allow a single moment of the program to be missed when Nature calls, no matter if She is calling audience members other than himself.   No matter how I reassure him that I don't mind, he shouts anxiously, "Mommy! You gotta hit pause!" And so I do, for him, so I won't miss a beat.

I guess it's an occupational hazard of growing up, but as a parent, I am especially guilty of living in all times but the present.  I toggle constantly between Fast Forward and Reverse.  (Will they ever get their shoes on in the morning?  FF. Where did my babies' chubby rubber-band wrists go? RW. Will we ever have our evenings back?  FF.)  If it is anything, this blog began as an attempt to notice the moments as they pass, to pause them by slowing down enough to describe them.

Today I read the following article, which explores these ideas far better than I:

Tennis with Plato

Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Darth Vader

It's evidence of something -- whether of progress, injustice or surrender, I'm not sure.  It required epic strength to resist as long as we did.

We made it all the way to age 7 before our eldest son was allowed to watch the Star Wars movies. Duncan owes his deprivation to four people:  A pre-school classmate he barely remembers whose sadistic play habits and obsession with Darth Vader at age 3 thoroughly freaked me out; a benevolent older cousin, who recalled his own childhood nightmares about Darth Vader and cautioned us to wait; and his rookie parents.

Given the logistical impossibility of separation, Duncan's brothers suffered or enjoyed no such protections.  They watched Star Wars at ages 4 and 2.  So much for the Resistance.

I wax wistful and amused at my lost parental innocence.  Star Wars is gentle stuff by comparison to what came after those floodgates were opened... The boys have now seen the first 4 Harry Potters, The Avengers, The Hobbit, Home Alone (all 4), and are about to complete the Lord of the Rings trilogy, among others I've lost track of.  They laugh at the breakfast table about how "Kevin shot the bad guy in the wiener with the staple gun!"  They re-enact the battle of Helms Deep with their Legos, or on each other, arguing over the best way to kill an Orc.  Tucker brings the Lord of the Rings DVD cases to Junior Nursery for show-and-tell, introducing his 3-year old classmates the "Ohtches" (Orcs) and the Evil Eye of Saran.  Now it's my kid who freaks out the new parents.

The tragic deaths in Connecticut last month have prompted soul-searching and finger-pointing about the origins of evil in our culture.  A snippet on NPR this week had NRA leaders pointing fingers at video game executives and Hollywood lawyers who pointed fingers at the Bible for justification of our eternal fascination with violence and the unprovable link between our fantasy lives and violent behavior.  Like all parents, I can't think about Sandy Hook without imagining myself in the position of those parents, my children in their classrooms.  It's unbearable to ponder.  But even more unbearable is the thought that something could go so wrong in our parenting, or in our health care system, or in our culture, that one of my kids could grow up to inflict such harm.  Against the real potential for such horrific behavior, how do we responsibly grapple with the dark content of our fiction?

At this point, I don't actually worry about my sons taking a seriously evil turn.  I witness their kindness, sharing and comforting each other without adult enforcement.  Their moral reasoning grows day by day, rooted in an instinct for justice.  While we are far from out of the woods (a grabbed toy can still elicit retaliation in the form of near strangulation), I believe they are "good boys," not because they are compliant, but because I can see them reaching for good within themselves.  And one of the guys I thank most for helping them on their quest is Darth Vader.

It's not easy to find our way through the raging impulses that compose human existence.  Whether snatching the last brownie or smashing brother's Lego Temple of Light, there are so many ways, petty or grand, to do harm. But Darth Vader began an unending conversation in our house...  Why did Anakin turn to the dark side?  Where does anger come from?  Why was he so sad?  Why did he want to hurt people?  Why does he change back to the good at the end?  And (shocking realization), can kids actually teach their parents how to turn into better people?   The better we know Darth Vader, the more we love him.  Luke showed us that the only way to be rid of the mask was to love the guy behind it.  To seek his destruction only makes him stronger, by turning us into him.  

Without Darth, we wouldn't have been ready for Gollum.  Starting with making sense of names.  We get that Anakin became Darth, so we can kind of get how Smeagol becomes Gollum.  The road to redemption starts when someone (Luke, Froddo) comes along who reminds them of their former names, their better selves.  But Gollum's journey is much more slippery.  His evil is less mythically pronounced.  He is no fascist, orchestrating empires of tyranny; Gollum's is more the petty destruction of an addict, but with consequences no less lethal for those who get in his way.  His unreliability makes him scarier.

My son Reeve has long been one to embody the characters of his imagination fully (see http://ricketyladder.blogspot.com/2009/10/my-run-as-mermaid.html and http://ricketyladder.blogspot.com/2011/06/super-reeve.html).  What would he do with Gollum?  Before we even got home from The Hobbit (opening weekend, in 3-D no less, that's how far things have gone here), Reeve was twisting a popcorn butter-stained napkin into a ring and testing it on his finger for invisibility.  At home under the couch, Reeve found Harpo's "bagel," a circular rawhide chew toy that was the dog's Hanukkah gift.   Bagel no more... Like its cinematic inspiration, this unearthed "precious" provoked murderous thoughts as 3-year old little brother discovered its mysterious allure and determined he would have it, at any cost.  A rawhide chew toy to the head can do some real damage.  A teachable moment, as they say.

As we make our way through the 3 Lord of the Rings, following Reeve's own post-Hobbit ring misadventures, Reeve asks anxiously and repeatedly, "Is Froddo going to turn evil?'' ... (minutes later) "Is he turning evil now, Mommy?"  "Is he going to be evil at the end?" He doesn't ask why Saran is evil; somehow he gets that the "eye" is an icon of potential, not a real character.  The danger lies in what power it holds over us.   More than death, it is evil that preoccupies Reeve, who seems to get that even death can be accepted as long as you "turn good" in time.

And as Froddo resists the power of the ring better than Smeagol, new questions arise.  Watching me type just now Reeve asked, "But Mommy, it doesn't make any sense.  If Saran made the ring and it's evil, then how does it turn people not to any side?" Which led to a discussion of the meaning of power ("The Ring of Power, one ring to rule them all"), what people do with it for good or ill, how it works over time, whether regular people have more or less power than kings, children or parents, and how a lowly Hobbit could possible go up against Saran.

Don't get me wrong... Reeve loves the fighting, and the unredeemable Orcs justify mass killing without disquieting conscience.  He has adopted Legolas, the archer, as his new persona (instructions for building a quiver for Fresh Direct boxes available on request).  Watch out -- he takes aim at anyone and anything with the bow and arrow he did chores to earn.  But at age 5, Reeve is reckoning with our vulnerability to our desires for pretty and powerful things.  He is pondering what kind of strength Froddo needs to survive his journey into the fires of Mordor, knowing what happened when Anakin submitted to the volcanic fires and wanting desperately for Froddo to forge a different destiny.  He is sorting out Gollum's perplexing multiplicity.

Thanks, Darth.

  

Enter Harpo

He's my first online guy.  Blond, muscular, handsome features,  a little bad boy in him but mostly sweet, 4 and a half.  (or 32, in people years).  His name is Harpo.

It's been over a year since Wiley died.  The (human) boys have been begging for a dog for months.  We put it off.  Winter.  Tucker.  Australia.  Jordy and I wanted one too, but were we up to another critter to care for?  We had to admit, our pet-less year had provided certain freedoms in our otherwise constrained lives of present.  But Jordy was back from Australia and our excuses had run out.

I looked at shelter websites all over the New York area but found Harpo just down the hill at the Sean Casey Animal Rescue Center.  He was my top pick, based on looks and profile.  I'm a sucker for that tilted-head, goofy look on a guy.  He was old enough to be past puppy issues; young enough to be unlikely to die in the next 3-5 years.

I resolved to meet him on my own before introducing the rest of my guys, not wanting to encourage premature attachments.  My entrance to the dog unit set off a cacophony -- frantic dogs barking, wildly leaping from side to side in their cages.  In the far corner one dog lay quietly, not a whimper or a wiggle.  He just looked up, tilted-head, goofy but also sad get-me-outta-here eyes.

The next day all five of us took him for a walk.  Tucker howled with frustration when we wouldn't let him hold the leash by himself.  (He wasn't receptive to the he-weighs-60-pounds, you-weigh-28 argument.)  Everyone but Reeve wanted him instantly.  What do you think, Reeve?  "His eyes are too worried, like Wiley's."  But finally Reeve came around, concluding after much thought that dogs must just have worried eyes, and maybe he wouldn't be so worried if he came to live with us.

***

Harpo is uncannily Wiley-like in many ways, just dipped in yellow.  His build, the flop of the ears when he trots.  When it comes to dogs, I guess I have a type.  So he surprises me when he's not Wiley, for better -- no interest in trash, not even candy! -- or worse --biting through the no-pull harness, pacing at 5:45am needing to relieve himself, then howling with excitement when you reach for the leash (three boys untimely ripped from slumber = not pretty), enjoying 45, 50, 60 minute walks with no action, then pooping in the living room as soon as we're home, etc.

We thought Wiley was a handful, but we never really taught him to poop on walks -- he just did it.  What do we do now?  We didn't teach him not to eat through his harness -- he just didn't.   But lest we forget, the first 18 months of Wiley's residence with us was no walk in the park.  He bit an old man.  He ate every sweater I had.  He whizzed all over the house the first day.  He'd bolt when we needed to leave the house.  We had to partition the house to resolve the cat/dog turf war, turning the bedroom into a restricted West Bank for our depressed cats.  Somehow by the time Duncan arrived, it all worked out.  No whizzing, no chewing, no partitions.

So who is this guy?  What now?  What will our story be?

Our neighbors are none too excited about Harpo's arrival; he is suffering the unfair burden of a disputed history over appropriate uses of a back yard.   Even the best-intentioned friends say, "Just what you needed!  As if you didn't have your hands full enough with three little boys."

But when I doubt the sanity of taking an animal into our home, I watch Tucker curl up next to Harpo, stroking his head and saying his name again and again like an incantation of love... "Hahpo! Hahpo! Hahpo! Hahpo!" and (all 27 inches of) Tucker carrying Harpo's dog dish ever so carefully to give him dinner.  I remember how Duncan begs for Harpo to escort him to the bus and how he looks for Harpo from the bus in the afternoon.  I love the scratch of his nails on the wood floor, the sigh when he settles onto Wiley's old dog bed for the night (and he's a great sleeper), and the fact that I have someone to give the tasty chicken drippings to again on Shabbat while Wiley looks down from heaven, dripping envious drool.

The first night Harpo was here, he wanted nothing more than to be in the middle of the sleeping action (yes, even sleep is an action in this household), trying to get into every boy's bed.  Every night we sing "I love you..." to the tune of Happy Birthday to each boy; that night we also sang to Harpo whereupon Reeve, enthusiastic but still guarded in response to Harpo, burst into tears.  "I miss Wiley so much!" he sobbed.  Duncan burst instantly into tears as well, "Me too!" and Tucker too, just to make sure he wasn't left out of whatever it was we were crying about.  They asked the unanswerable questions about life and death and dogs, finally agreeing that loving and losing is definitely better than not loving at all.

They assured Harpo they were ready to love him too, and off four boys drifted to sleep.

Lou on the Loose: A Reality Show

Premise:
"Lou on the Loose" will feature TUCKER "LOU" GREEN, a recently TWO-year old boy, known by his family to "pack a lot of person in a little package."  A highly active boy who mastered walking, running, and climbing before his 1st birthday, at 2 Lou's curiosity takes an exceptionally task- and process-orientation, with both exciting and hazardous results.

Series Description:
The suspense and humor of the series will live in the tense space between his parents' pride at their son's intellectual ambition and the real disasters that ensue from his exploits.  In each episode, we will set LOU ON THE LOOSE in a new location, benign to the casual observer but – as viewers will come to anticipate – thrilling new turf for Lou.  Thrilling too for Lou's parents, whose gratitude at his engagement on a task, coupled with a vaguely isn't-this-a-great-Montessori-learning-exploration rationalization, overwhelm their better judgement. Inevitably distracted, his parents lose track of Lou just long enough for DISASTER to strike. At the end of each episode, Lou's humbled parents confess their errors, learn from their mistakes, and swear never to let it happen again.  Until the next episode.

EPISODE #1 (PILOT):  LOU ON THE LOOSE IN THE BATHROOM

It's the morning rush.  Two big brothers need to be fed, dressed, teeth brushed, jackets-hats-and-shoes on in time to meet the bus.  Lou is roaming the kitchen, taking his brother REEVE's favorite "guy" and calling it "mine," throwing scrambled eggs across the room, etc. When big brother DUNCAN goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth, MOM and DAD's relief that Lou follows makes them turn a blind eye when only Duncan re-emerges from the bathroom moments later.  Off-screen we hear the WATER still running in the bathroom...

We cross-cut between the FRONT HALL where Mom and Dad tie ratty show laces (that really need replacing, must remember), zip parkas (wow, these coats are filthy, must remember to wash) and try to tame wild cases of bed-head, and the BATHROOM where LOU IS ON THE LOOSE.

Standing on the toilet to better reach the sink, Lou has uncapped the toothpaste and is decorating the perimeter of the sink in sparkly blue gel.  This task accomplished, he moves on to an experiment in hydro-paper dynamics, in which he stops up the drain, fills the bathroom sink to the brim, and empties an entire box of Kleenex into the water one sheet at a time.  The tissues make beautiful gauzy swirls as he waves his hands through the water.  "Mo!" (more) he says to himself, looking at the empty box with furrowed brow.  So he scales the shelves for a new roll of toilet paper, extracts it from the Scott tissue wrap (which he adds to his pool - blue!  pretty!), and begins to unroll the toilet paper when he hears his Mom returning to check on him.  He feigns innocence as she rounds the corner, panic-stricken as she registers the sink full of pulpy white soup with still-running water.  "Lou, what have you gotten in to NOW?" she exclaims.  She swoops him off the toilet, opens it and begins to scoop whatever bits of wet mush still cohere into the toilet bowl.  "We don't put paper in the sink, Lou!  Paper is for wiping, and blowing," she tries to explain, failing to contain her exasperation.  He stamps his feet in protest, yelling "No!" as his creation flushes away.

The episode ends with Lou's parents seated side-by-side, interviewed by an omniscient off-screen FAMILY THERAPIST who asks them questions such as, "How could you have better engaged Lou's curiosity?" or "What part of this disaster was your responsibility?" or "Toilets are very slippery; how would you have explained your decision-making process to Child Services if Lou had been gravely injured?"  The parents mumble well-intentioned, self-depracating answers with promises that tomorrow they will do better.

ADDITIONAL EPISODES:

#2:  LOU ON THE LOOSE IN THE KITCHEN

Involving beer bottles, can openers, boiling water and carving knives

#3:  LOU ON THE LOOSE ON PROSPECT PARK WEST

Involving refusal to ride in the stroller, a flat tire, a Two-year old runaway and heavy traffic

#4:  LOU ON THE LOOSE AT THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE

Involving a very long wait; an altercation over another boy's Matchbox cars; and a desperate diversion involving an iPhone including nonsensical emails sent to Mommy's work clients, deletion of her contacts and memos, and the disappearance of essential Apps

#5:  LOU ON THE LOOSE AT TRADER JOE'S

Involving a lot of screaming, inarticulate demands for this, that and the other thing, an ineffectual "seatbelt" on a grocery cart, innocent victims of flying frozen peas, and a TJ's Associate who talks like a duck

#6:  LOU ON THE LOOSE AT LOWE'S

Involving the demise of tomato seedlings, impact testing of lightbulbs, an APB over the PA for a missing Two-year old, self-expression with spray paint, and a ride on a forklift

#7:  LOU BACK ON THE LOOSE IN THE BATHROOM

Involving experiments in flushing, such as Lego pieces, rubber lizards, Thomas the Tank Engine trains, and ballon pumpers; a basement backed up with black water; and an emergency visit from Andrew, the Metaphysical Plumber

Symphony in G major

ALLEGRO

Pidder pat pidder pat
Which one is it? Ma-ma? You got him?  Thanks.  CRY.  Silence.  Drifting...
Pidder pat pidder pat
Mommy, I had a bad dream.  Back to bed.  Snuggle.  Drifting...
Wiggle.     Wiggle.     Wiggle wiggle wiggle.   Time for sleeping.  I can't.  You can.  Twitch.
Still.   Sharp CRY.   Up.   Get him out before others wake.  Is he pulling on his ear?   Where's the medicine dropper?   Mum mum!
Nurse nurse nurse.  Drifting...  STARTLE.  6:40. 

Wake up!  Wake up!  Long sleeves, cold day, sweats in wash, settle for jeans.  NO!  YES. 
Milk first, then honey.  Sausages.  Eat!  I am!
GRRRRRRinding coffee.  WHEEEE tea kettle.  Fish sticks and apple sauce.  Where have all the water bottles gone?  Shoes!  Shoes!  Eat!  Eat!  I am!  I am!  Brush teeth, jacket.  Backpack.  No time for fooling!  Let's go!  

Street, cold, dark, trash.  A bus.  Passes.  Another.  Another.  Cold, dark, windy.  Three maybe five minutes to find out what So-and-so did at lunch yesterday, or did you know we have to have Gym in our classrooms this week?  So unfair.
Blinking lights, hugs, kisses blown through the window, little faces disappear.

Can I have a snuggle on the coach?  Ma-ma!  More fish sticks and apple sauce.  Cheese sticks and pretzels.  Thermoses and little boxes.  Bananas bananas bananas.  I want a waffle!  How do you ask?  Please?  With maple syrup, and a sausage.  I want a boiled egg!  I want Shrek cereal!  Time to get dressed.  But I need a red shirt!  Harry Potter wears a red shirt when he's on his Quidditch!  

Why are we rushing?  Because we're late again!  Why are we always late?  I don't know.  Jackets!  Hats!  Backpacks!  In the stroller.  EW!  Tucker has a poop!  Do you have a poop?  No!  SNIFF.  Yes.  Jackets off.  Upstairs we go.  Wiggle wiggle, roll over, escape.  Pin.  SCREAM.  Wipe.   JACKETS.

In stroller we go.  NO!  Arch back arch back NO NO NO!  Run to the corner, then in.  Run run run run run, WIPE OUT.  Ahhhh!  Boo-boo check?  Kiss kiss, good as new.  Run run run run run. 

Billy on street corner.  VRRRRMMMM, bus.  Did you know that an octopus squirts ink to hide from the shark so he can't find him to eat him-  VRRRRRMMM, street cleaner. 

Park.  Joggers, bikers, strollers, scooters.   Breathe.   Sky.   Wind.   I spy with my eagle eye.   Knock knock, who's there?  Ach...   Gezuntit!  Hahahaha..  Mama, nana!  More banana? 

Drop off, good morning!  Who are we today?  Superman?  Harry Potter?  Welcome to Red town!  Blue town!  We're going to make challah!  Have a good day.  Bye bye Mama!  See you later!  I love you.  I love you.  I love you.

ANDANTE

Walk home. Walk.  Check email.  Walk.  Text.  Walk.

MODERATTO

Tea, desk, tap tap tap tap, blog blog, email email email.  Phone call this, phone call that. 

Change laundry.  Clean up kitchen.  Phone call this, phone call that.  Post office.  Change laundry.  Email email email email. 

Photos.  Still.  Sad boy.  Excited boy.  Laughing boy.  Big boy.  Tiny boy.   Hot on mountain top.  Cold in blizzard.  Chasing, flying, swinging, swimming.   I can see the boys they used to be.

Write.  Email.  Text.  Change laundry.

Jacket.   Walk walk walk.  Phone call.  Walk.  Pick up #1.  How was his day?  He ate beans, rice, grapes, yogurt... He make a poo poo.  Again?   Heavy lids.  Succumbs to stroller.  Out...

Bump up, bump up, bump up, bump up...  Wheel in house.  Deep breathing. 

Heat left-overs.  Email, text, email, bills, to-do.  Phone call.  Still sleeping.  Email, text, change laundry. 

2:55?!

PRESTO

BUMP BUMP BUMP, back down stairs stroller goes.

RUN MAMA RUN.  Slalom stroller through Bishop Ford kids.  Past park.  Joggers, bikers, blurr.  Check clock.   Text while running.  Sweat.  

PICK UP #2.  How was your day?  Good.  We made Rainbow cake, and ate TWO pieces!  Great!

Bananas bananas yogurt yogurt granola bars.  Playground.  Blast-off!  No throwing sand!  Share!  Cheese sticks.  Veggie booty.  Five more minutes!

HUSTLE.  Park.  Joggers, bikers, blurr.  Sun in eyes.  Mommy, my chicks!  Yellow buses pass.  Duncan's?  HUSTLE HUSTLE.  Check clock.  HUSTLE.  Text - r u at bus stop?  Running late.  No answer.  Sweat.

Joe's Pizza.  Blinking lights.  Hi, sweetie!  How was your day?  Good.  Can we have a playdate with Ava?  Can we play Zoombinis?  Can I have a playdate with Charlie?  Can we watch Nemo?

ADAGIO

First, snack.  Then homework.  AW!  Rice cakes, cheese sticks, carrots, grapes.  Sharpen pencil.  Head bowed over table.

Superman makes a rescue, or Harry Potter flies a car while Lou disassembles the fridge or steals iphone ("po") for a TED talk or music video. 

Markers and coloring books.  Playdough and clay.  Dry ingredients and wet ingredients.  Cookies.  What should we make for-

ALLEGRETTO

He took my-!  He hit my-!  GIVE ME THAT! CRY.  Is that how we handle it?  Do you need a time out?  Try again nicely.  Offer a trade.  Let him have a turn.  Try that again?  How can you ask nicely?  You can solve this problem.  If you don't find a way to work it out, there won't be any XYZ...  When is Daddy getting home?  Soon.  AW.

Itadakimasu, Yoedvadyotkivanuk.  Dinner.  Use a utensil.  Knees stay under the table.  Don't lean on me.  Did we say thank you for this great dinner?  Thank you.  But it's not my taste.  Can I have more milk?  Three more bites.  How many?  Snarf.  But I don't like peas!  Have you been excused?  I have to use the bathroom!  Can I have some more milk?  You just had some-  Tucker, milk is not for pouring on your dinner!  Giggles giggles.  Eat.  How was your day?  Mortgage this, boss that, teachers-- Daddy!   Did you notice he was talking?  Sorry!  Remember to say excuse me.  Work this, that- EXCUSE ME!  And wait for an opening-  GUESS WHAT?!  (surrender) What?  (More wine?)

Bath time!  Five more minutes!  Legos.  Markers.  Flying cars and quidditch sticks.  Bath time!  But we had a bath last night!  Bath time.  Aw. 

Splash splash splash.  Bum bum this, bum bum that.  Spit.  NO SPITTING.  Shampoo.  But my boo-boo hurts!  Brush teeth.  Open up... Wiggle wiggle roll, pig pile!  Hahahaha!  Open so I can reach back teeth.  Tongue?  Enough, out.  Out!  No jumping, slippery!  Pajamas.  But I can't find my superman undies! 

Choose your books.  SNOW.  Wow, you read it yourself, Reeve!  Wiggle wiggle.  Mummum!  Mummum!  Pig pile.  Doggie Peekaboo.  That's right, there's silly doggie!   HP3.  What's that word?  "Persuade."  Daddy, I read the first page of chapter twelve by myself!  Wiggle wiggle.  Lunge.  Fly. But I want a snuggle!  You will have one.  That's all for tonight.  Just two more pages!  PLEASE!  Grimace.  Protest protest.  Bed time.

LARGO

Lou dinner take 2 with Choo Choo downstairs with Daddy.  Big boys in Bed.  Sing- I Love you, Reevie- I mean, Harry!  I love you, Harry!.... Shalom Aleichem.  Snuggle snuggle, I'm sorry for when we had tough words this afternoon, me too, I love you, I love you too, sweet dreams.  Sing again- I love you, Duncan, I love you, I love ... I need tissues!  Water.  Have to go pee pee.  Snuggle snuggle.  I love you, I love you too. 

Lou.  Mum mum.  Snuggle.  Water bottle.  Climb, crawl, giggle, lunge, sigh, lie, sleep.

Sleep.

Pidder pat pidder pat...