Oh, Louie.
My sweet, completely unpredictable, absolutely brilliant Louie.
If you’ve read the other introductions, you probably already know that every one of my kids has their own brand of chaos. But Louie is different. Not better, not worse—just different. And understanding that difference has been one of the biggest learning experiences of my life.
Louie didn’t crawl until he was 13 months old. He didn’t walk until 18 months. He didn’t say his first words until he was 2½.
I remember waiting for those words. I had already had three children before Louie, so I knew what those milestones looked like. I knew other kids his age were talking. I knew what I was waiting for.
And I waited.
Then one day, he finally said “mama.”
I cried so hard.
Somehow we’ve gone from mama to “Bruh,” but those first words felt like they took forever to hear.
Once Louie’s voice finally showed up, though?
Oh, he has made up for lost time.
This kid does not stop talking.
And there is absolutely zero filter.
If Louie thinks it, Louie says it. Not because he’s trying to be rude or hurt anyone’s feelings. He’s simply telling you what he sees.
Once, we were picking up food and a man was loading something into my car. Louie looked at him from his seat and said, “He’s kinda fat, right Mom?”
I wanted to disappear.
But Louie wasn’t insulting him. He wasn’t trying to be mean. He was making an observation.
That’s Louie.
He sees the world very literally, and sometimes the rest of us have to catch up.
Louie is autistic, Level 2, meaning he requires substantial support in daily life. Getting to that diagnosis, however, was an entirely different story.
The first doctor who evaluated him told me he didn’t believe Louie met the criteria because he was “too smart.”
That made me furious.
As someone who has worked with children with special needs, I knew better. Intelligence doesn’t cancel out autism. Being able to solve something doesn’t mean you don’t struggle with other things.
And Louie struggled.
At four years old he was terrified of the toilet. He wouldn’t use stairs normally. Loud noises were overwhelming. Bright lights were difficult. Transitions were hard. He struggled to play with other children and had frequent meltdowns.
He started kindergarten with an IEP, but I knew he needed more support.
Thankfully, his teacher saw it too.
After talking with his teacher and his advocate, we tried again.
One appointment.
That’s all it took for another doctor to look at Louie and say, yes. He’s absolutely autistic.
And finally, we could start getting him the support he actually needed.
Even then, it wasn’t easy. School was hard. The bathroom was hard. Transitions were hard. I was getting calls from school constantly.
Eventually, it became one of the reasons I had to choose between working full-time and being available for my kids.
But this year feels different.
We just visited Louie’s new school, and he’s going to have access to an autism support classroom, sensory space, breaks when he needs them, and help with things that were previously leaving him struggling.
And when we walked into that school?
This kid was skipping.
He was yelling, “THIS IS THE BEST LIFE EVER!”
That’s Louie.
He can have the hardest day in the world and still find something to be excited about.
Because underneath all of the challenges, Louie has one of the sweetest souls I’ve ever known.
He gets bullied sometimes because he doesn’t always understand social cues.
And somehow, he still wants everyone to be his friend.
There is one little boy who has bullied Louie. One day at the park, Louie kept trying to talk to him even though the boy clearly wasn’t interested. Eventually I stepped in and explained that he probably didn’t want to talk.
Louie simply said, “Oh, okay!” and went about his business.
A week later, that same boy was sitting alone during a community day while my boys were playing kickball.
Louie walked over and asked him if he wanted to play.
His bully.
Louie didn’t see someone who had been mean to him.
He saw a kid sitting alone.
That’s the kind of heart this kid has.
His care team and I have a saying:
“It’s Louie’s world. We’re all just living in it.”
And honestly, that’s probably the best way to describe him.
His world runs on timers, routines, personal space, and very specific logic.
If he’s uncomfortable and people are crowding him, he needs space. If you don’t give him that space, sometimes his solution is… well…
to take his pants off.
His reasoning is actually pretty simple:
“I’m uncomfortable. I’m trapped. People are too close. How do I get them away from me?”
Apparently the answer is butt.
And because Louie is incredibly literal, when the school staff asked him why he did it, he didn’t just tell them.
He showed them.
That’s his brain.
And his brain absolutely amazes me.
He can struggle to read individual words on flashcards for an hour and a half, then pick up an entire book and read it like he’s been doing it for years.
He can push away counting manipulatives because he’d rather solve the math in his head.
He can struggle to communicate an answer verbally while absolutely crushing a visual or nonverbal assessment.
He scored a 136 on a nonverbal assessment, putting him in the very superior range.
So yes.
That first doctor was right about one thing.
Louie is brilliant.
But his intelligence doesn’t make his autism any less real.
And his autism doesn’t make him any less brilliant.
That’s something I hope he always knows.
Because sometimes Louie knows he’s different.
One day at school they were supposed to dress up as what they wanted to be when they grew up. I asked him what he wanted to be.
He said,
“I want to be six years old and I want to be smart.”
I asked if he wanted to be a super genius.
He said yes.
So I told him a secret.
“You’re already a genius.”
He looked at me and said,
“I know, but I’m not smart. The other kids call me stupid. I can’t be smart.”
That one hurt.
I held back my tears and started listing every reason I knew he was brilliant.
His face changed.
He got excited.
And suddenly my little bouncy ball of energy was back.
“You’re right! I am super smart! Thanks, Mommy!”
That’s the Louie I want the world to see.
Not the diagnosis.
Not the meltdowns.
Not the kid who sometimes needs more help than other kids.
Louie.
The kid who got a strike at bowling and immediately flexed his muscles while yelling, “YESSSS! I’M IN GOD MODE!”
The kid who stared at the scoreboard and repeatedly yelled “Jesus Christ!” until I had to hide my face in my hoodie because I was trying not to laugh.
The kid who takes his clothes off when his ice cream gets melty but keeps his shoes on because, obviously, the ice cream didn’t get on his shoes. Duh.
The kid who loves his siblings, tells everyone Kalli is his best friend, and thinks his brothers are basically superheroes.
The kid who loves the lake and now screams “We’re going to the beach!” even though we are nowhere near an actual beach.
The kid who digs in the dirt, plays in the water, tells the neighbors completely ridiculous stories, and apparently considers himself the strongest person in the world and his neighborhood’s personal security guard.
The kid who recently informed me that I’m better than Karens because “Karens are beautiful, but they’re bullies. You’re nice to everyone.”
I’m still trying to decide whether that was a compliment or a very politely delivered insult.
And then there’s the six-year-old who has apparently been six for 150 years and intends to discuss the situation with Jesus when he gets to Heaven.
You really can’t make this shit up.
And I don’t want to.
Because someday, when Louie is older, I hope he reads all of this and sees what I have always seen.
A kid who is different.
A kid who is brilliant.
A kid who is hilarious.
A kid who struggles.
A kid who loves fiercely.
A kid who is still learning how to navigate a world that doesn’t always make sense to him.
And a kid who, despite everything, keeps choosing kindness.
So, yeah.
It’s Louie’s world.
We’re just lucky enough to live in it.
And I’m pretty sure there are going to be a lot more stories about the completely unhinged shit Louie says along the way. 😂