Tuesday, June 17, 2014


Sorry it’s been a while since I last checked in…I’ve been busy.

J  I turned 5,

J  Traveled to the Magical Land of Disney,

J  Graduated preschool,

J  Became obsessed with my butt,

J  Learned to swim the backstroke,

J  Played a successful season of T-Ball.

All this packed into a few short months.

Most of the milestones are self-explanatory, but let me elaborate on my latest obsession, my bum, my rump, my backside, my bottom…whatever you call it, it’s all good.

I find it hilarious.  Everything about it…the noises it makes, the capabilities it has, the reaction it evokes from merely saying its name.  In a word, it’s amazing.

I am, however, the only one (in my immediate family at least) that finds it as functional and funny as I do.  What was once a source of slight amusement for my sister Riley, is now cause for cringing and tattling.

Case in point…

To spice up our nightly routine a bit, I thought I would use my latest obsession to stir up some funny.  In my most helpful voice, I sweetly called to Riley that I had finished brushing my teeth and the bathroom was hers for the using.

Unsuspectingly, she rounded the corner to a sight only the truly disturbed would appreciate, and my only regret (at this point) was the inability to simultaneously be an observer and a participant.

Entering the room to the sweet serenade of  an original song I like to call “Jingle Butt” (go ahead and sing along as you visualize the scene…it’s sung to the tune of “Jingle Bells”, yet all of the lyrics are replaced with the word “butt”.)

There I stood, singing my tune, bobbing up and down to the beat, completely naked, backside out, half bent over, with her toothbrush perched within the confines of my cheeks like a flag being raised at dawn.

Between the barely audible cries of horror, she was somehow able to mutter the words of indictment that immediately brought my parents in on the fun.

I am not sure of the exact amount of time it took them to process the scene, but after a brief pause for judgment, they quickly removed the bristles from their hiding place and carried me to my room as I tried to catch my breath from laughing so hard.

I don’t even remember the scolding I received, as my euphoric mind was still reeling from the monumental prank I had just pulled off.

Our nightly routine has since been modified, including (but not limited to) the supervised observation of both putting on my pj’s as well as all bathroom activities.

In addition to the new regulations, I also had to purchase a new toothbrush for my sister with my own hard-earned money.

One soft grip toothbrush = $3.

One more reason having a younger brother is the most aggravating, exciting, irreplaceable experience any child could ask for = Priceless.

Thursday, January 2, 2014

Boys Can't Fly

Some concepts seem…implied…superfluous…logical…

And it’s in that moment that you think it not necessary to clarify concepts, that I will test the very laws of nature to TRY to prove you wrong.

So to answer the question, “Can boys fly?” would seem…implied…superfluous…logical.

But I’m four, I’m curious, I test limits, I defy the laws of gravity, I AM  BRENNAN!

Here’s how that plan went down:

Meijer bags looped on arms (to serve as wings)…CHECK.

Climb to highest perch in the house (back of the couch)…CHECK.

Eyeball target (ottoman located approximately 12 feet from couch & just beyond wood coffee table)…CHECK

Flap feverishly (to start take-off)…CHECK.

Deep-knee squat (for ample altitude)…CHECK.


Imagine my surprise, when instead of the graceful touchdown upon the ottoman that I envisioned, I came crashing down in a blaze of glory face-first onto the edge of the coffee table.

No tears.  No yelling.  Just the pissed-off declaration of “I DIDN’T MAKE IT!” left my lips.

Newton's law of universal gravitation states that any two bodies in the universe attract each other with a force that is directly proportional to the product of their masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them.

For those of you who aren’t a learned scholar like myself, let me sum up Sir Isaac Newton in my own words…

Brennan’s law of gravity states that when a body (like a boy) is obsessed with the idea of flying over another body (like a table) it matters very little what the product of their masses is because the stubborn four year old boy will 100% of the time try to clear that table via the airways and the result will 100% of the time be an injury, regardless of the distance between them.

And through the swollen lid of my bruised eye, I saw the thought-bubble floating from my Mother’s face that had only three letters hovering in its space, “W. T. F.?!?!”

But regardless of her bewilderment, my Mom still rushed to my aid, scooped me up and started the concerned inspection of injuries, softly uttering just three words…

Boys. Can’t. Fly.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Capitan Irrational

It’s a bird!  It’s a plane!  It’s Capitan Irrational!

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that once an expectation of “responsibility” falls upon an unpredictable wild card like myself, my mild-mannered alter-ego takes the form of (what my family affectionately refers to as) Capitan Irrational.

Unlike some inferior and far more unstable Superheros, such as The Incredible Hulk, my transition from Brennan to Capitan Irrational typically has no precursor or warning (like turning green and ripping out of my clothes).  I mean, who doesn’t see that nut-job teetering on the edge?  We don’t need to see him crawl in a hole, start to sweat and watch for the eye glow for us to know he is going to snap.

I on the other hand, transform instantaneously and go from sweet and agreeable to borderline insane in .4 seconds when the INEXCUSABLE sets me off.  Such as:

*My mom putting the jelly on top of the peanut butter instead of the bottom inside my PB&J.

*Being forced to ride in the cart instead of wandering Target like a feral cat while my mom chases me and tries to simultaneously get all of the items on her shopping list.

*Asking for a hotdog cut into strips and not circles, and my mom cuts it into strips and not circles…she should have known I really wanted circles even though I asked for strips.

*The wind switching direction.

*Getting wet while playing with the hose.

*Too much parmesan cheese on my noodles (or too little), there is a perfect amount, you know.

*Being denied a piece of candy in the checkout lane.

*Only finding 13 instead of the 14 torn-up pieces of paper I stashed under my pillow.

*Some unsuspecting soul looking at me the wrong way, or God-forbid, smiling at me when I am not in the mood for anything friendly.

*My sister trying to hug me.

*The dog biting at me after I try to bite her.


It wouldn’t be worth the headache to transform over just trivial or unimportant issues, it really takes a massive injustice to bring out Capitan Irrational.

Granted, my passion bubbles very near the surface, but I will let you in on a little secret…

I. Am. Tired!!!!

Really, it is that simple.

What man doesn’t need just a few ZZZ’s midday to kick back in his lazy boy and recharge his machismo?

The problem… I am four years old & can’t communicate “I am tired” using those three simple words.

Instead, I rely on the indestructible Capitan Irrational to do my “talking”.

So when you see my Superhero appear, or God-Forbid if you are the culprit who commits one of the inexcusable acts that cause him to appear, just keep walking…and try not to judge.

After all, doesn’t everyone have a little Capitan Irrational in them?

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Don't Touch That Beaver!

During my four short years on this planet thus far, I have learned many important life lessons.  Unfortunately, the propensity for any and all of these things to change at the blink of any eye is about the only guarantee.

Like birth order…just when you think you have your rolls established and stereo-types fulfilled, BAM!  Your parents pull a sneak attack out of the woodwork.

I thought my standing as “third-born-baby-of-the-family” was locked up.  Especially when the topic of adding to the family brings about shrieks of laughter from not just one, but both of my parents.  To quote my Mother, “Unless there’s some divine plan for Jesus to have a sibling, we are done having kids.”

Rock-solid status, right?!?

To that I say, NO SIR!

Did you know there is something worse than bringing a newborn baby home?  Something cuter?  Something softer & snugglier?  Something for people to drop what they are doing and talk to a complete stranger just because this THING is with them?  Worse yet, something that threatens to take one ounce of the attention away from THE BABY OF THE FAMILY?!?

That’s right, we got a dog.

Not just a dog…a six-and-a-half week old puppy.  And from the response this thing has received, apparently it’s a pretty cute one.

This attention sucker has taken over our home, our lives, and last but not least, my standing.

She has her own stupid basket of toys shaped like stupid fake animals, a stupid pink crate, two stupid bowls with pictures of stupid bones on the side, and a stupid flowery leash.

I think I hate the stupid toy shaped like a stupid road-killed beaver the most.  The constant reminders about the dogs beaver are nauseating.

“Don’t touch the dogs beaver.”

The dog loves to run in circles with her beaver in her mouth.”

“Leave the dog alone when she is playing with her beaver.”

“Look at the dog wrestle with her beaver.”

The dog sure loves her beaver.”

“Go find the dog’s beaver.”

“Don’t take the dog’s beaver from her.”

The dog’s name is Kali, and apparently she loves her beaver.

I hate that stupid beaver.

For Kali’s three month vet visit, she only wanted to sit by me.  She hid under my legs when the doctor tried to stick her with yet another round of shots.  Why she would think I would save her from the torture I wished I could execute myself is beyond me, but for the sake of looking sweet, I appeased her feeble request.  She must have wanted something to nuzzle since we left her beaver at home.

It’s my job to play with Kali every day.  We go for walks, play fetch, and wrestle.  I get to feed her, let her outside when she has to go to the bathroom, and help with her bath.  I try to sneak her treats during dinner and let her lick the leftovers off my chin.  I don’t even mind if she sometimes wants me to play fetch with her beaver.  Sometimes.

At five months old, Kali has decided to lay claim on the one safe haven I had left…my bed.  She joins my Dad and I every night for my bedtime story.  She lays right next to me, curls to conform to my body’s shape and listens to “Go Dog, Go!” right along with me.  She nuzzles her head in the crook of my neck and we eventually synchronize our breaths as we calm for the night.

My dog loves sleeping with me and I guess I love it too…even if she insists on bringing that beaver with her.

When I come home my dog greets me with more sloppy wet kisses than I can stand.  We hide under my bed, play chase and taunt my mom with the number of laps we can run around her.

I am teaching her not to bite me by biting her right back, and how to pee in the bushes by enthusiastically demonstrating with my accuracy.

 I now have a best friend for life and love my dog more than almost all the candy in the world.  Almost.

And even if that beaver is part of the package, then so be it.  I guess it’s not so bad…it looks like it has been chewed up, spit out, and beaten by 10,000 bikers…but it’s hers and anything she loves I love, too.

I just have one question…why didn’t my parents get me a dog sooner?!?

Thursday, September 26, 2013

Remember When...

“Remember when I was 35…I go skiing with my best friend Uncle Jake and Uncle Buddha and we drink beer.”

“Remember when I was a Smurf…I drink the soap and burp up bubbles.”

“Remember when I was 3…I break my leg, and rock on the rocking chair all day, and chip off the paint.”

“Remember when I was a Pappy…I take lots of pills every day.”

“Remember when I fly in a rocket…I make the moon really small.”

“Remember when I was a Mom…I like to take baths with wine and books.”

“Remember when I swim with sharks…I find teeth everywhere.”

“Remember when I eat a worm…I give it to my babies.

“Remember when I was a Grandpa…I drive my tractor everywhere and I let me drive.”

“Remember when I go to the lake…I jump in the waves.

“Remember when I be a dog…I eat with no hands and pee outside.”

My Mom likes to remember when I was 3…and my imagination consisted of experiential knowledge of actual events, recall of stories that others have shared, scenes from movies, or outright fabrications.

She should really write this stuff down…someday it will be priceless!

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Future Hall Of Famer

One of my favorite questions to ask (virtually anyone and everyone I encounter) is, “How old I have to be to__________ (insert job/scenario/milestone)?”

For example, while waiting for our dinner at the counter that overlooks the kitchen in our favorite pizza joint, I politely asked the gentleman flipping the dough, “How old I have to be to work at JT’s?”.  His reply, “17”.

Or, while watching the friendly warehouse employee at Home Depot (as he tested the payload of the hi-lo he was maneuvering), “How old I have to be to drive one of those?”  His (somewhat snarky) reply, “18!  It’s state law!”

I store all of this important information deep in the bowels of my brain for recall at a later date.

Such was the case after my 4th birthday…I recalled a conversation that occurred while watching the only program on my parent’s television from March until October…Tigers Baseball.

I dug deep into the Memory Palace and pulled out a little tidbit of information regarding the age requirements for playing T-Ball…BAM!  It was 4!

So for the next month straight, I asked my Mom when was opening day for the YMCA?!?

The day finally came!  Dad as coach…check.  Cleats on…check.  Blue bat…check.  Lefty mitt…check.  White t-shirt with red sleeves…check.  What more could I need to start my career as a future hall of famer?

Not surprisingly, the day didn’t go as smoothly as I (or anyone trying to tame this wild fire) expected.  Because not included on my all-important checklist was some working knowledge of baseball basics…that would have been helpful.

My dad and the three other well-intentioned souls spent 70 minutes essentially herding 12 cats.  The hitting drills, fielding drills and calisthenics looked nothing like Miguel Cabrera stepping up to the plate to go for another triple-crown.  So I took it upon myself to try and reenact my favorite Tiger’s legendary presence.

With lawn chairs full of spectators (including my nanny and pappy), I stepped up to the tee.  Still undetermined if I hit left or right, I squared up, swung back, and let that ball fly all of 10 feet right to the pitcher.  And just as I practiced at home, I held onto the bat and ran after the ball in hopes of fielding my hit ball and starting the process all over again.

Little did I know, there are TWO teams and it is not my job to field my own hit.
Like I said…important information that would have been nice to know BEFORE my at-bat.

It took some convincing, but I eventually ran to first base (and by convincing, I mean the desperate first base coach lured me there with the promise I could punch him in the gut when I arrived).

My first great offensive display continued with a leisurely walk to second base (once the batter behind me arrived on the base I was occupying).
On to third (with my batting helmet covering my eyes because I had turned it backwards).
Then home, but not before I swung by the on-deck circle to take the bat from my teammate who was patiently waiting his turn to bat (although his patience ran out right about the same time I swiped the bat, and he ran after me yelling, “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!?”)

And with that my batting and on-base percentage was 100%!  Not a bad start to what I think will be a lifelong career of being a pain in the ass…I mean playing baseball!

See you at the All-Star game, Miggy!

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Sweet Revenge

For those of you unfamiliar with my nemesis, you should review the B-Blog titled “AKA: Basketball”.

If you haven’t read it (or don’t remember the details) in the interest of time, here’s a quick recap:

During a brief encounter on the basketball court with a giant dill-hole of a man, I narrowly avoided a concussion, I called him a “Fat Ball”, he insulted my mom, and he was (in general) just an ass.

That about sums it up.

Today I was able to enjoy dolling out a little of the sweet elixir I like to call revenge.

While enjoying a little free-time in the gym childcare, I positioned myself behind the mesh gym divider that separates the “kids zone” from the “basketball zone”.

And there he was, awkwardly trying to walk and bounce a basketball at the same time, but thinking he was full of athletic swag, Mr. Fat Balls himself.

I don’t think he saw me (at first).  But I saw him.  And I immediately remembered that stupid ego-maniac’s arrogant grin.

I started off subtle, as not to draw attention to myself, with just a laugh here and there.  But not like an innocent-kid laugh, more like a “HA-HAH, HA, HA-HAH” (to the cadence of, “NA-NAH, NA, NA-NAH”).

Then I ramped it up with general insults like, “You missed!” and “No points for you!”

When the dim-wit was finally able to put together the jumbo-size-puzzle-piece hints that I was directing my criticisms towards him, he started to really put on a show.

Sweet merciful crap, was it hilarious to watch his anger grow as his athletic ability shrank.

He couldn’t make a shot to save his life, and I was the first to point out his shortcomings.

No longer attempting to hide myself or my insults, I brought out the big guns.

I was pointing, laughing, and encouraging other children to taunt.  I started chanting “YOU MISSED, YOU MISSED, YOU MISSED!”  and a few of the other lemming-children joined in.

After gaining the attention of a few giggling basketball players, his delicate male ego could withstand no more, and he called upon the childcare workers to remove me from the gym.

In a climactic ending as I was escorted back to the confines of the enclosed playroom, I yelled “YOU NO GOOD AT BASKETBALL!  YOU MEAN!”

After taking some time to reflect on my actions and decide if I was too hard on the chap, I am reminded of one simple fact…I am three and that douchebag is a grown ass crybaby excuse of a man.

Brennan 1, Fat-Ball 0.