Meet Landon.
The professional button pusher.
And the protector.
I know those two things sound like they completely contradict each other.
With Landon, somehow they fit together perfectly.
Landon has always been high energy. The “troublemaker.” The kid who figured out very early exactly which buttons to push—and then made it his personal mission to push them.
He’s the classic second-born child.
If he knows something bothers you, he will absolutely zone in on it.
He always has.
But I’ve started looking at that part of him a little differently over the years.
I have this theory about the universe.
I don’t think the universe just hands us the things we ask for.
You ask for patience, and you don’t necessarily wake up the next morning suddenly patient.
You ask for strength, and you don’t magically become stronger overnight.
You ask for courage, and suddenly you’re not fearless.
Instead, I think you’re given opportunities to practice those things.
Over and over.
Until eventually, what once required effort becomes something that comes naturally.
And in that sense…
Landon is the human form of the universe.
😂
He will keep pushing the exact button that triggers a reaction out of you until one day you look at him and think,
“Oh. That doesn’t bother me anymore.”
Whether he realizes he’s doing it or not, I think his professional button-pushing has probably helped people more than they ever asked for.
Which, honestly, is pretty on par with Landon’s character.
Because while he absolutely loves pushing buttons…
he is also one of the most helpful people I know.
If I say something needs to get done, he’s usually the first person moving.
I’ll say, “When I get home from the store, we’re going to do this.”
And I’ll come home to find that he already did it.
He’s driven. He’s determined. And he’s an athlete in every sense of the word.
He runs track, just like Schylar, and honestly, I love that they both found their place there.
Growing up, being only eleven months apart, they were almost always on the same sports teams.
And that meant competition.
Constant competition.
Track gave them something different.
Their biggest competition isn’t each other.
It’s themselves.
Their PRs.
Their own goals.
And I love watching that.
Landon also plays football, and this year, as a sophomore, he’s second-string quarterback on the varsity team.
And he works his ass off for it.
He’s always practicing.
Always working out.
Always trying to improve.
But I think sometimes people look at Landon and stop there.
They see the athlete.
They see the jock.
They see the kid who likes to annoy people.
And they miss everything else.
I don’t.
I get to see the moments everyone else misses.
I get to see the kid who jumps in when I need help.
I get to see the big brother who will stop whatever he’s doing because one of his siblings wants him to do something with them.
I get to see the soft moments.
The moments when he’s struggling and doesn’t quite know what to do with those feelings.
I get to see the person underneath all of it.
And there are a couple of moments that I think tell you much more about Landon than anything I could simply write about him.
The moment I realized he really does tell me everything
A while back, Landon decided he wanted to talk to a therapist again.
He had seen one when he was younger and eventually stopped because he felt like he was doing better.
Then during a doctor’s appointment, he said,
“I think I would like to speak with a therapist again.”
His doctor said they would have someone come in for a consultation.
When the therapist came in, they explained that they would like to speak with Landon privately.
They told me I could wait in the hallway and they would come get me when they were finished.
So I did what I believe every parent should be willing to do sometimes.
I got up.
I gathered my things.
And I started walking toward the door.
I’m not the parent who believes my children aren’t entitled to privacy.
They are human beings.
They deserve a space where they can speak freely, even if that means speaking to someone outside of their family.
Honestly, that’s part of what has made therapy so valuable to me at different points in my own life.
Sometimes you need someone you can talk to without worrying about hurting their feelings.
Someone who isn’t personally involved.
Someone who can give you an unbiased perspective.
So I was completely prepared to leave.
And then Landon said,
“She doesn’t have to leave. Anything I’m about to talk to you about, she already knows. I tell her everything.”
He probably didn’t realize what that sentence did to me.
But I could have cried.
Because in that moment, I realized something.
As chaotic as our life can be…
As many days as I question myself…
As many times as I wonder whether I’m completely screwing up this motherhood thing…
I’m not.
My kids feel safe talking to me.
They know they can tell me when something is wrong.
They know they can tell me when they’re struggling.
And apparently, they know they don’t have to hide the hard stuff from me.
That means more to me than I can explain.
And then there was bowling.
Schylar had just gotten his driver’s license.
It was a Saturday, and the boys wanted to celebrate.
Sundays were $1 bowling at our local bowling alley, so naturally, that became the plan.
Louie loves bowling.
I hadn’t really wanted him to go because it was from 9–11 p.m., which was well past his bedtime, and I knew there was a decent chance that the late night could make things harder for him.
But he heard the older boys talking about bowling.
And he wanted to go.
So I decided to let him.
I went along, partly because I wanted to celebrate with them and partly because I wasn’t sure how the older boys would handle it if Louie had a meltdown in public.
About halfway through bowling, it happened.
Louie got a gutter ball.
And the meltdown came with it.
He was screaming.
Crying.
Stomping his feet.
He eventually came over and flopped onto my lap, squeezing my arms while I kept telling him everything was okay.
And then, through all of the screaming and crying, I heard Landon.
“Lu, look up at the screen, buddy. You’re still in first place! You’re doing so good!”
And just like that…
Louie calmed down.
I looked up at the screen.
And that’s when I realized what they had done.
When the older boys entered everyone’s names into the bowling system, they had put Louie’s name first.
So no matter what happened during the game…
Louie was always going to be in first place.
They had thought about him before they even started playing.
And Landon knew exactly what mattered to his little brother in that moment.
He didn’t tell him to stop crying.
He didn’t tell him he was being ridiculous.
He didn’t get embarrassed.
He didn’t make the meltdown about himself.
He found the one thing that mattered to Louie and used it to help him work through what he was feeling.
That’s when I realized I had been worried for nothing.
I needed to have more confidence in my older boys.
They knew their brother.
They knew his differences.
And they knew how to love him through them.
The protector
Landon and Hudson can fight like cats and dogs some days.
And I mean really fight.
Landon will purposely do things that annoy Hudson.
Because, apparently, being a big brother comes with a legal obligation to torment your younger siblings.
But let someone else say something mean to Hudson?
Suddenly, you’re dealing with an entirely different person.
“I’m sorry, what did you say to my brother?”
It’s almost like there are two completely separate rule books.
As their big brother, I have every right to pick on them.
As someone who doesn’t know what they struggle with every day, you better not.
And honestly?
I think that’s one of the most incredible things about him.
He protects his siblings.
Not because he’s been told to.
Not because it’s his job.
Because he genuinely cares about them.
And that same thoughtfulness shows up in other parts of his life, too.
It is only August, and he already has money saved for Christmas and for his anniversary with his girlfriend.
And he’s still saving.
Because Landon doesn’t just want to give people things.
He wants to give them something that matters.
He’s not the kid who thinks,
“They like makeup, so I’ll buy them makeup.”
He’s the kid who thinks,
“They like makeup. What could I get them that would actually mean something to them? What would make them genuinely happy?”
He pays attention.
He thinks about people.
He notices the little things.
And I think that’s something people can easily miss when they’re only looking at the loud, athletic, button-pushing version of him.
There is so much more underneath that.
He’s thoughtful.
He’s sensitive.
He’s protective.
He’s hardworking.
He’s generous.
He’s stubborn as hell.
😂
And yes…
he will absolutely still push every single button you have if given the opportunity.
But maybe that’s part of the beauty of Landon.
He’s never been just one thing.
He’s complicated.
He’s loud.
He’s driven.
He’s emotional.
He’s competitive.
He’s kind.
He’s protective.
He’s annoying.
He’s helpful.
He’s a teenager who can run track, play varsity football, work toward his goals and save his money…
and still somehow be the kid who makes you want to pull your hair out before breakfast.
And I think that’s what I want people to understand about him.
Don’t mistake the loudest parts of someone for the entirety of who they are.
Because sometimes the kid pushing your buttons the hardest…
is also the kid quietly paying attention to everyone around him.
The kid who notices when someone needs help.
The kid who makes sure his little brother is always “in first place.”
The kid who protects the people he loves.
The kid who says,
“Mom doesn’t have to leave. I tell her everything.”
And that kid?
That’s Landon.
My professional button pusher.
My protector.
And one hell of a human being.