Officer Poopy

There are days I am thankful for all of the distinguishing traits and unique qualities passed on to me by my parents.  And there are other days when they should take a few pointers from the master manipulator…ME.

The “puppy dog” eyes, the innocent smile, the irrefutable logic…that’s right in my wheel house!

Additionally, this is an area my Mother is severely lacking.  She’s more of the “blabber, blabber, blabber, nonsense, pleading, blabber” kind of gal.

But when you get clocked going 87 mph in a 70 mph zone, you really should know your strengths (and your weaknesses) and just turn the situation over to a pro and watch the magic happen.  Of course, my Mother did not, and tried to take matters into her own inept plea bargaining hands.

I let her carry on for just long enough until I determined an intervention was necessary.  Conveniently, I was seated directly behind my Mother in the driver seat, and could roll down my window to address the friendly Ingham County Officer personally.

I figured there was no need for introductions, so I cut to the chase…
“Why my Mom yell when she see you?  Why you talk to my Mommy?  Why you not in you car?  What you doing?”

Officer: “I am explaining to your Mommy the dangers of going too fast, especially with children in the car.  It’s very bad.”

Me: “My Mommy not bad.”

Officer: “Your Mommy was going too fast, but I am just talking to her about it.”

Me: “You shirt is brown like poopy.”

Officer: “What?”

Me: “I NO LIKE YOU!  YOU POOPY!”

Unnecessary interjection from my Mother…”Ha? You have kids?”

Officer: “No.  I’ll be right back.”

Upon his return, my window had been forcibly rolled-up, my Mother was the recipient of one speeding ticket as well as a lecture on teaching her children to respect authority.

Of course, that same lecture was handed down to me.  Luckily, my strategic seating arrangement prevented her from reaching me, so I was only subjected to her “blabber, blabber, blabber, nonsense, pleading, blabber.”

And as I’ve mentioned, the effectiveness of that speech is less than successful.

I did, however, learn a very important lesson that day:

Insulting an officer of the law is not the route you want to take when trying to finagle your way out of a ticket.  Conversely, if your goal is to throw out gratuitous insults and potty talk to watch someone else try to finagle out of a ticket because you know there are no real consequences that can be imparted on you just for being hilarious…then carry on soldier.

$700 Candy Machine

It has been well documented and established that I enjoy the process of finding and then filling “house holes”, “car holes”, most any opening that resembles a “hole” with random objects.  The reasons for stuffing treasures into the unknown are endless…almost as endless as the number of new holes I find on a daily basis.

So when I came upon a new and exciting pipe-like hole that sticks out the side of my new house and sits at approximately my shoulder height, I was more than willing to conjure up a reason to fill it.

Only limited by my imagination, I decided this would be the depository for “money” (aka: small rocks) and the hose spicket conveniently located next to said pipe, would be the output of “candy” (aka: water).  The more money, the more candy, and repeat.  I enjoyed hours of wet fun depositing my coins and being rewarded with soggy clothes.


It wasn’t until last week, when the weather decided to turn cold, and my warm-blooded Mom needed a little furnace action to warm the house, that my “candy machine” was discovered.

After several attempts to fix the furnace himself, my Dad finally swallowed his pride, opened his wallet and called the friendly heating and cooling professionals.

It took approximately 20 minutes of disassembly for him to produce a handful of rocks (aka: money) to my Dad, and ask, “Do you know what this is?”

Forgetting that complete smartasses have assimilated themselves into everyday society, my Dad replied, “A handful of rocks?”

Heating and cooling specialist's response, “Nope.  That’s 700 bucks.” [Insert halfwit smile proudly gloating at his cleverness]

Needless to say, my candy business came to a screeching halt at the discovery that the hole was actually the furnace output and the deposited rocks had fried the conductor board.

Who knew?

I have a feeling that when I go to cash in on my college fund it may not be as plentiful as my sisters due to all of the repairs.

Oh well…on to the next hole.

Holy-Moly Guacamole!

It’s not often I give props to my Mommy for letting me be me, so today I would like to repent for all of the shenanigans she is subject to on a regular basis and give a huge shout of thanks for supporting my creativity today.

As many of you know, I am the youngest of three children, with two older sisters.  I am also the product of a habitually-overcommitting-stay-at-home-mom who spends most of her time with other moms of the like.

That being said, I am in touch with my feminine, nurturing side.

So with half a doll shoved underneath my shirt, the other half dangling out, and my head held high because I love all the attention, I trotted my confident behind into Costco pretending “I have a baby in my tummy”.

Ask any expectant mother, and they will tell you that when the baby decides “it’s time”, there’s not much you can do other than let nature take over.
A slightly lesser known fact, is when a pretend baby decides “it’s time”, nature AND drama take over, and there’s no telling what will happen.

So while at the first free sample station, things got really interesting when my baby decided “it was time”.

I took one bite of a nuclear-hot rice, bean and cheese burrito, layed down in the extra-long cart seat and yelled, “HOLY-MOLY GUACAMOLE!”

The poor Costco sample-giver thought I had caught on fire and rushed over to make sure I was ok.  My questioning Mom, on the other hand, was slightly more discerning in her empathy.

After some louder-than-necessary yells, I proudly announced “MY BABY DECIDED TO BE BORN!” and pulled the floppy figure from under my shirt.  I quickly swaddled her in the pink gingham blanket I brought and gently kissed her plastic cheek as any adoring new mother would.

My Mom just smiled.

But after ignoring “the looks” we got while walking into the store, dismissing the disapproving “greater” who criticized “a boy having a doll”, it was the overzealous religious extremist that brought out the “Mama Bear” alter-ego that lies deep within my protective Mother’s brain.

She actually allowed that long-skirted, crazy-eyed, finger-pointer with four kids in tow to get in a few words about being “tolerant to Satan’s gay teachings” until she did something I don’t think anyone saw coming.

She actually hugged that crazy bitch.

With a big smile on her face, she hugged her and said, “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry you are so ignorant.  Have a blessed day.”

As we walked away, the already sour-faced woman’s look went from anger to complete confusion.

She was almost as confused as me.  I just sat there in silence holding my baby while my Mom just smiled at me.

I don’t know much about being a Mommy, but now that I have a baby of my own, I think I might let her be anything she wants...and just smile.

What You Want Me To Call Them?

Today I had the utter displeasure of accompanying my mother on her annual pilgrimage to replenish her tired brazier collection.

I’m not sure who enjoys this excursion less.  Her, for the river of denial she swims trying to shop in the “cute” section.  Or me, for being strapped into a stroller-cart, taking endless trips in and out of the dressing room and through the tight weave of undergarments.

Although, after today’s attempts to make this experience a smidge more palatable for me, I believe my Mother’s distain increased exponentially.

Prologue:
For anyone who has EVER:
*Been around me for more than 5 minutes,
*Read The B-Blogs on a regular basis,
*Worn a tight or low-cut shirt in my presence,
*Sat at eye-height while I’ve possessed a camera,
or finally,
*Simply someone who has boobs.

You may know that I am slightly fascinated with them.

Simply said, I love them.  I love everything about them.  I love looking at them, I love poking them, I love talking about them, I love pointing them out and remarking on their obviousness.

Back to my story…
At first glance, this satiny department is very misleading.  There are hundreds of hanging forms that only look like a woman’s best feature.  As I learned, they aren’t actually filled with anything.  But that didn’t stop me from fondling each and every one of them, deflating the molded cups with one swift poke and yelling “BOOBIES!”  in a repetitive and dramatic crescendo-type fashion.

As in: “Boobies, BOobies, BOObies, BOOBies, BOOBIes, BOOBIEs, BOOBIES, BOOOBBBIIIEEESSS!!!!”

Now I will let you do the math as to how long this went on.

One Mortified Mommy + One Loud, Perverted-Mouthed Boy Screaming “BOOBIES” Non-Stop + 5 Bras + Check Out Time = Number Of Minutes We Were In The Store.

And let me thank the “very helpful” (as my Mommy called them…but not in a “very helpful” sort of way) ladies who belly-laughed at my chants.  Without you, I may have ceased the madness sooner, but you seemed to be enjoying it so very much.

So next time you are out shopping and wander past this fun department, I hope you will think of me and all the joy I bring to almost everyone.

Washing Windows

Step-by-step account of actual days events (and a little insight into how my brain works)…
Find spray bottle.
Find squeegee.
Go outside.
Spray door wall windows with spray bottle.
Squeegee windows.
Run out of water.
Contemplate options.
Decide faucet is too far.
Remember I have the ability to make my own spray bottle.
Pull down my pants.
Pee on the windows.
Squeegee pee off windows.
Go inside.
Proudly tell my Mom, “I wash you windows!”
My Mom smiles, because she is more than surprised at the beauty of the streak-free clean a little urine can provide.
Your Welcome.

The First Day...Of The Rest Of My Life

Embarking of this adventure called school has long been an anticipated dream of mine.

The build-up to this particular day has been nothing short of monumental; after all, I am “the Baby”.

More importantly, it marks my break from the eagle-eye of my Mother…or so I thought.

Just when I think I’m being afforded a little freedom, it’s really just a changing of the guard.

I was warmly (yet deceivingly) greeted by THREE older versions of my mom.  That’s right; not one, not two, but three women whos only job is to monitor my every move.  Their sweet smiles only hide their CIA-operative-spy-like observation skills.

THAT’S SCHOOL?!

And that’s when I decided…you want something to watch…I’ll give you something to watch.

So I started by offering all of the teachers as well as my unsuspecting new classmates the booger that sat upon the tip of my index finger.  For those that fell prey to acting squeamish, I feigned wiping it on them.  I even chased a few of the overly-dramatic, threatening to tattoo them with my germy pointer.

On to the playground…I asked the teacher to help me zip my sweatshirt, and while she was crouched in front of me, face-to-face, I asked if I could see her boobs.  Much to my surprise, she denied my request.

Next, Circle Time…I love that they know all of the same songs as me.  Or at least some version of my playlist.  So when we sang the “ABC’s” I was more than eager to share how it should be sung (with an emphasis on the “P” followed by a rant of “pee-pee, poo-poo” shouts.

And my favorite, Snack Time…In the time it too my teacher to turn around to get the pitcher of water, I was able to summit our snack table and proclaim, “HEY EVERYBODY, WATCH THIS!…”  But before I could finish the show, I was quickly scooped up and placed back in the miniature version of a chair.

I am really going to have to step up the executions of my plans.  No worries, I have all year...

Good Ideas

In my world, one good idea usually leads to another.  On average, the results are either fun or hilarious (and usually just plain worth it).  Then there are those rare occasions when all three merge, in combination with a near heart attack for my Mom, and I call it a successful day.

First Good Idea…Help my Mom pack the car for our road trip (quite helpful, if you ask me).

Which led to Good Idea #2…Put the keys in the ignition to open all of the windows.

Naturally leading to Idea #3…Since the windows are open, I exit the car via the windows and climb onto the roof by way of the roof racks and some fancy footwork.

Awesome Idea #4…While atop the car, the discovery of what I could see from that height led to one of my best ideas EVER.

(Now understand that my Mother was at a distinct disadvantage when she finally came upon the following scene, as she was not privy to Ideas 1-4 beforehand.)

Look closely…I am intentionally lying down and shadowed because I am about 75% sure this may be frowned upon.

 

INCREDIBLY FANTASTIC IDEA #5...Use the top of the Suburban as a platform to climb upon the top of the opened garage door (and simultaneously discover new ways to give my Mother unnecessary heart palpitations).

 

How long did it take you?  It took my Mom approximately 9 minutes (that’s like 47 hours in Mom-Time).

I heard the ever-familiar gasp of “HOLY HELL!” when she finally caught a glimpse of me lying as still as a stick-bug hiding from predators, just trying to blend with my surroundings.

After quickly snapping a photo (which she thought I didn’t see her doing) to prove to my Dad just what happens during her “easy-stay-at-home-Mom-day”, she gently coaxed me down.  I was glad to reenact each move I used to make my ascent, and give a play-by-play description of the process during the reverse descent.

Not-So-Awesome-Result…I may as well be on house arrest.  That woman has resorted to not letting me out of her sight, not even for a second.  I must now accompany her as she tries to complete her daily household tasks, while she showers, while she makes dinner, and even when she uses the toilet.  Talk about punishment!

She may take away my freedom, but she can never take away my imagination.  And where there’s a will…there’s a way!  Stay tuned.

Team USA!

After 17 days of non-stop Olympics coverage in our home, I have come to learn some very important information.  For Example:

*If your country has less than 4 people marching in the opening ceremony, you are probably tied with Tajikistan for 83^rd place with one bronze medal.

*The athletes from the USA have a lot of wonderful things to say…about themselves.

*Usain Bolt is my new hero because he can pull off the “Hulk Hogan dip-lean-&-point” like no other.

*A lot of girls look like boys.

And finally,

*Although China took a not-so-close second to USA in the medal count, they win the prize for having a country name that rhymes with one of my most favorite words in the world!

Think…

Keep Thinking…

Do you have it yet?

Follow me here…

Having been subjected to countless hours of Olympic viewing, I have come to understand two very important pieces of information: 1) Not everyone in the world looks like me, and 2) I can recognize someone that comes from a country that received almost as much TV coverage as Team USA.

So today at Meijer, when I saw a woman that was clearly one of the 1.3 Billion born in China, I had this to say to her:

“IT’S NOT CHINA, IT’S VAGINA! ”

Having said this numerous times during the games, it should not have come as such a surprise to my mother.  But it was.

Lucky for her, the woman (whose first language was clearly not English) looked more confused than angry and just smiled at me.

I, of course, smiled back…the biggest shit-eating grin I have ever smiled in my life.

I think someday I will be an ambassador for this great country of mine.

Bungee Innovations

I’m curious.  I’m inventive.  I’m mischievous.  Quite an extraordinary combination, I know.

This trifecta of useful traits came in very handy when I discovered the surprising elasticity of bungee cords and their many uses.

Use #1: A fantastic leash when the mood strikes me to pretend to be “Barron”, my alter-canine-ego.

Use #2: A makeshift lock when I loop it around both the doorknob on my door to the doorknob on my sister’s door.  The further the bungee stretches, the harder it is for them to open their makeshift prison.  Watching one of them try to escape while the other pries open the door is like watching someone try to clear the gauntlet…unsuccessfully…every time.  I just roll on the floor watching & laughing.

Use #3: Excellent connection between my sister’s bike, the wagon, the sled & my big wheel (in that order).  The one downfall…when the first object stops, the bungees recoil but do not aid in the stopping process, thereby creating quite a pile-up.

Use #4: De-pantser.  I am smaller than most (approximately ass-height to most adults).  This handicap comes in handy when I want to hook a bungee to the belt loop of anyone taller than me & then sit down.  When they realize what is happening, they instinctively turn around, thereby aiding in the process of bringing their pants to their knees.  Fantastically hilarious…for me.

Use #5: Opener…of everything.  Simply by hooking one end to my shirt, the other to anything needing to be opened and then backing up, I just let physics take over.

What could possibly go wrong with this?  Let me tell you…some things are not secured or attached to a fixed object as well as others.

For example…dresser drawers: attached, cabinet doors: attached, fence gates: attached, faucets: attached, oven doors: attached, dishwasher drawers: NOT ATTACHED!

In a painful discovery, I found out that bungees DO have a maximum tension & something has to give.  In this case, the very tiny plastic clips holding the very heavy sliding drawer full of glasses and bowls were no match for my bungee power.  The surprise outcome (at least to me), the entire drawer broke free from the dishwasher and came soaring toward me in a rocket-propelled instant.  The retracting the bungee, again, did not aid in stopping the inertia of the drawer.

This isn’t the first time my Mom has spent the day shining a flashlight into my eyes to examine my pupils (and I’m sure it won’t be the last).  I don’t know what “checking for dilation” means, but if she’s trying to look into the depths of my brain to somehow explain my actions…keep looking baby!  It will take something stronger than a flashlight to find that source.

#2 Katie, #2 Katie! Where for art thou, #2 Katie?!?

My favorite thing about family reunions?  The possibility of a non-relative showing up so I can work my magic.

Such was the case at the annual Brown Family Party that took place on July 4^th.

There aren’t too many of these kinsfolk that I see on a regular basis, so I took it upon myself to acquaint myself with each and every one of them via my standard introduction, “Hi.  I Brennan, Who You?”

Then, like the clouds parting to reveal a double rainbow, I saw HER. 

Pulling out all the stops I approached her, smiled, and smacked her leg with the swim-noodle I had positioned between my legs.

Not understanding how I charm the ladies, my Mother said, “Brennan!  Nice boys don’t hit girls with their noodles.”  With a smirk, I let that one go because sometimes the countless number of counters that could be said just shouldn’t be said.

After establishing that my new obsession’s name was Katie, I quickly dubbed her #2 Katie.  Not because she held anything less than #1 in my smitten heart, but because my aunt is also named Katie, and I grant seniority when and where it is due.

And just as a pesky mosquito is nauseatingly attracted to a luminous figure amidst the darkness, I felt the uncontrollable magnetism that redheaded goddess had on me…and it was on.

For the next three days she was my one and only focus.

If she wasn’t in my presence, I was asking where she was…constantly.
If she was in my presence, I was all over her…relentlessly.

I didn’t let a little hurdle like my inability to swim hamper my willingness to attempt to paddle through the waves on Lake Huron to get to her.  Nor did I let the minor setback of height inhibit my attempts to get as close as possible to the mirrored glasses that adorn her face.

I pulled out all the stops.  Again bringing in the swim-noodle as a prop, I pranced around in front of her on that bendable piece of foam swinging the “tail in the front” it had formed, determined to turn her attention away from that boy who brought her to town.

Technically, I think he is my “first-cousin-once-removed”, but regardless of our familial relations, I will take that boy down to get to the prize.  Bring on your brothers, both of them if you need, I have a little something called chutzpa to back me up.

Look it up & be prepared.

As for my beloved, #2 Katie…until we meet again.  And by then I will be a full year older, wiser & that much more aggressive.

Area-O-Fun

Some things are just made for each other, like peanut butter & jelly, mashed potatoes & gravy, Ike & Tina.

And some things are not, like anything that is spring-loaded & my penis!

It has long been my M.O. to clamp, stick or generally attach things to my junk on an inquiring basis.  It really comes down to curiosity and my ever-burning desire to figure out the many different functions of my boy-parts (not to mention, anything that involves me taking my pants off is an added bonus).

While primping herself for the day, my Mother called me into her bathroom only to find that I had removed my freedom-inhibiting pants, gently secured some plastic pliers to the soft squishy section below my penis, and was swinging it to and fro like a giant clock pendulum.  With a gentle unhinging, she removed them and went back to her business.

As I watched her remove the giant clip securing that mop of burnt blonde hair atop her head, I thought, “I wonder what else that would clamp to?”  My first thought…MY PENIS, OF COURSE!

Seeing as I was already pants-free, it took me no time at all to grab the toothy clip, squeeze it open and position it over my entire area-o-fun.

BIG MISTAKE!

With a howl and a hunch, I scrambled to remove my delicate manhood from the jaws of spring-loaded hell.

It was in that moment I was reminded that not everything should take an exploratory trip down penis lane.

And according to my Mom, that includes spring-loaded hair clips, markers, anything attached to the other end of bungee cords, sandwiches, and all girls associated with GoDaddy.com (4 out of 5 I actually have experience with, the 5^th may need further research once I figure out what that means).

Things That Make You Go, "HMMM"

First, I should clarify that I often confuse the meanings of “where”.  As in, I may say “home” when I mean “office”, or I may say “garage” when I mean “basement”, or even “up” when I mean “down”.  Details I have yet to bother learning.

So when my Dad started in on his usual inquiry as to our day, I had more details than necessary to share (90% of which were dead-on accurate).  They went a little something like this…

Dad: “So what did you do today?”

Me: “We go Dr. Brian’s house.  Mommy put me in playroom with toys.  Dr. Brian tell Mommy lay down on special table.  Mommy say ‘UGHHH!  HMMM!’  Then Mommy feel better.”

Dad: “?”

Mom: “Dr. Brian is my Chiropractor!”

You can call him whatever you want, as long as he keeps taking away that crabby crazy person we have grown too accustomed to when she is in pain, I will call him a champ in my book.

Dr Office Space

What event could possibly prompt a trip to the grocery store where the order consists of: Neosporin, Band-Aids, Push-Up Popsicles & Vodka?

Let me start from the beginning…

During my nightly scrub-down, I was prompted out of the tub by nature calling.  Unfortunately, I forgot the answer to this very simple computation:  slippery boy + slick tile floor = cartoon-like horizontal drop where your melon hits the toilet then the floor before the rest of your body catches up.

My Dad’s response…“Just put a butterfly band-aide on it & he will be fine.”

My Mom’s response (after wrapping me in a towel & smothering me with hugs)…“Tilt your head back so I can clean you up and then decide if a butterfly will suffice.”

The discovery…My double chin was holding the wound closed, so when I looked up, the outpour of uncontrollable spurts of blood were the game changer.

My Dad’s response…”Should I still go to my golf league tonight?”

The result…An emergency visit to the urgent care where the socially-challenged Doctor (who reminded my mother of Milton from “Office Space”) repeatedly told me what a “tough little dude” I was as he secured two layers of sutures to my chin.

No tears, no cries, just my repeated taunts of, “You done yet?’  “You breath stinky!”  “You have hair in you nose.”

Thus, the answer regarding our trip to the grocery store.  Neosporin & Band-Aids for the care of the new hole in my head.  Push-Up Popsicles as a reward for my exceptionally cooperative attitude (as well as a few extra for my sisters and the Kileen kids).  And Vodka for Mrs. Kileen for watching my sisters while my Mom took me to the Emergency Room because my Dad did not bail on his weekly golf league.  (In his defense, my Mom would have done the exact same thing.)

One week later, a little sweetie at the Pediatrician’s office removed the “blue whiskers” from my chin to reveal the first of many scars that will adorn my body throughout my lifetime.

The Lesson…Just pee in the tub, it adds a little heat to the water and avoids a whole lot of hassle!

The New ABC's

A handful of people are just born performers.  Those who poses a raw natural talent just waiting to be unleashed; some with the ability to sing, some to act, some to dance, and some to tell jokes.
I am what others would refer to as “a quadruple threat”, and was blessed with the capability to do all four exceptionally well and love to display that talent at every opportunity.

Take today, for example.

The knowledgeable staff at the Grand Rapids Children’s Museum has dutifully created a “stage” of sorts for us creative-types to showcase our abilities.  After choosing just the right costume (a tutu, sunglasses, and bunny ears) I rallied the other children as my back-up singers as I performed my rendition of the classic, “The Alphabet Song.”

It went a little something like this…

[NOTE: It is far too difficult to put into words the awesomeness of my “moves” and the depth of my talent, so do your best to visualize an adorable, pot-bellied, blonde, three-year-old boy donning the aforementioned costume and fist-pumping while holding a pig puppet and a mock-banjo…got the image?]

“A,B,C,D,E,F,G. H,I, J, K, L,M, N, O, PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!  HAHAHAHAHA!  I SAID P!  PEE-PEE-POO-POO! I HAVE A PENIS!  I PEE-PEE & POO-POO!"

[Laughter from the children in the crowd = permission to continue & kick it up a notch]

“OLD MCDONALD HAD A BOOTY AND ON HIS FARM HE WENT PEE-PEE AND POO-POO! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

[Mortified look on multiple mothers’ faces = my mom removing me from the stage]

Don’t worry, I got in one more song as we left…

“THE ITSY BITSY BOOTY WENT UP THE WATER SPOUT.  DOWN CAME THE RAIN AND WASHED THE BOOTY OUT!”

I’m pretty sure my mom is secretly proud of my talent as she waved good bye to those party-pooper moms.

[There I go again, gratuitously throwing in a potty word.  My comedic timing is impeccable!]


P.S. ~ Not that I’m blaming Dr. Seuss again, but there may be some warranted influence not being addressed here…

67 Pokes

It was inevitable…My family’s DNA set me up long before I was born to be itchy, wheezy, bloated, gassy and perpetually sneezing.

So begins round one of trying to figure out what lies beneath as the root cause of my allergies.

Enter, Nurse Mary.

My greeting to my new lady was “Hello, I Brennan.  You hair is long.  You have glasses.  You see my penis?  SEE!” [Good-Bye underpants]

Nurse Mary, “I’m not that kind of Doctor, Brennan.” [Smile]

Step One...The process began with Nurse Mary drawing smiley faces on my fingers.  Fun.  I’m all about coloring on things I’m not supposed to color.

Step Two…More markers & my back was gently tickled with her artful hand.  Still fun.

Step Three…All of her sweet talk, game play, song singing and promises of a toy reward quickly dissipated when I felt the first poke…and then the second…67 sticks to the back later I didn’t feel the same about Nurse Mary.

As a matter of fact, when the required time for me to lay still expired, I sat up, looked at that nurse lady & said, “YOU POKE ME! I KICK YOU!”

Of course I forgave her, she did give me hand sanitizer and a boingy toy after all.

Until next time, Nurse Mary.  See you soon.

Fancy Stuff...NOT For Kids

Mother…Please give me just a little credit for attempting to clean up the inevitable messes that I make (either intentionally or accidentally).  So when I make an effort to soak up the puddle around the toilet, I should not get in more trouble for using the “fancy bathroom towels.”

That’s right, my Mother has bathroom towels hanging in the bathroom that we are not allowed to wipe our hands on (or anything else, for that matter).

Who does that?!?

The issue here is not how the puddle got there (even if I was emulating a sprinkler and just the tiniest amount may have splashed outside the rim).  The issue, as I see it, is that I made an attempt to clean up said “mess” and that woman was upset that I chose the wrong vehicle for cleaning.

NEWSFLASH…I’m three and don’t care if your towels have elaborate embroidery and decorative tassels hanging from the edge.  They looked absorbent, so I used them!  End of story.

To sum it up…

Hang a rag, hang a sham-wow, hang a frickin’ fur pelt…I don’t care.  But if you want me to make any effort, don’t hang unusable cloths within my reach.

The Birthday Present

Let me start by saying, I didn’t think it possible that two women could actually find something to say to each other for three hours straight, but my Mom & her friend managed to accomplish just that and then some, as they were still talking as we walked the car to leave, with the promise to continue the conversation at a later date.

After our three hour “just stop by for a second to say Happy Birthday” visit, where six kids were left to fend for themselves while the moms chit-chatted, I thought I would leave the birthday girl a little present on her front walk.  (To protect the innocent, I’ve decided to refer to the afore mentioned birthday girl as “Mrs. Willemin” from now on).

As I walked to the car, I realized I had not used the bathroom during our entire stay.  True to form, I stopped halfway down “Mrs. Willemin’s” sidewalk, turned around, pulled my running pants to my ankles and wrote my name in urine.  I should have written “Happy Birthday”, but seeing as I am only three, spelling is not my forte.

My mortified Mother yelled for me to pull my pants up as she put on her boots, but I saw how funny everyone (including the “try to hide your laughter behind your hand Mrs. Willemin”) thought it was and decided to finish my “message”.

So enjoy your present, not everyone gets a custom made gift from a sudo-celebrity on their birthday.

HAPPY BIRFDAY TO YOU, “MRS. WILLEMIN”!

Buddy Day Birthday

Hangin’ with my Homies at my birthday party was the best gift I could have received…I thought.

We had donuts, opened presents, jumped on the trampoline, played in the sand box & played games (did I mention we did ALL of this outside on March 19…in Michigan?!?)

Then, as if some Alien-Fun-Mom took over my Mom’s body, she dangled an oversized basketball from the deck above, gave us all a bat & said we could go to town beating the daylights out of this object.  Seriously?

Again, best gift ever…I thought.

Somehow amidst the flurry of the beat-down we were giving this poor ball, Brady noticed something fall from the sky.  On cue, all four of us stopped, looked to the ground and saw IT.

Wide-eyed and open-mouthed we stood there staring at this gift from heaven.  I finally spoke and said, “DAT CANDY!”

Once more on cue, we all realized that this treat had actually fallen from the big orange fun ball we had been beating with our bats.  So I thought, “What if there’s more?”

Could it be?

Without hesitation, I swung like my life depended on it & smashed it to oblivion.

The rain storm of sweet treats was more than we could handle and we were overcome with excitement at the sight. We giggled like 2-year-old girls, dropped where we were & started opening.

After 10 whole minutes of gluttony, my Mom finally decided to stop the madness & she scooped up what was left of our haul. We didn’t care, we were too high on sugar and excitement to even notice.

BEST BIRTHDAY EVER!!!

Gift Giving

Today I saw a pretty (what I thought was a) fly sitting next to the door & thought my Mom would also like to share this splendor of nature.

Very stealth-like, I walked up to him and gently pinched him between my fingers to bring it to my Mom.

Much to my surprise, HE WAS NOT A FLY, HE WAS A WASP...AND THE BASTARD STUNG MY THUMB! In a rage, I threw him on the ground and stomped him to a flat death.

That's the last time I try to be nice and bring my mom a pretty gift!

Tub Time

I am secure enough in my masculinity to confess that I love the tub, but I really love the bubbles that go along with the tub.

3...2...1...BLAST OFF!

Frankly, I can’t think of a more appropriate date for my birthday.  Three years ago, on 3/21, I came into this world like a bat out of Hell, and haven’t stopped to look back (which, from what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t have wanted to see anyways).

I have spent the last three years preparing my family, friends, and the world for what is to come under the reign of Brennan.  Giving everyone a little taste of life with Master-B at the helm has been eventful, entertaining and downright hilarious for all to see and experience.

Raise your pints and toast to the life you once knew, because in 2056, on my 47^th birthday, you will be captivated and entranced by the slogan “B-4-P In The Land Of The Free!”

So enjoy another year of what The-B and The-Blogs have to offer.  Because if 2 was good, 3 will be awesome!  Hold on and enjoy the ride, it only gets better from here!

PS – Happy Birthday to the twin I left behind.  Our family thinks it was God’s Plan that I was all this world could handle, but together I know we would have ruled the world, Brother!

Goodbye Terrible Twos!

Today is my last day of being 2.  I’ve heard this year is called “The Terrible Twos”, so I’ve decided to send it out in a similar style to which I’ve lived it…full throttle.

Since the moment I rolled my aggressive behind out of bed this morning, I’ve been a complete nuisance, irrationally naughty, and downright angry.

I’m sure my Mom is thinking this all ends tomorrow…I’ll be 3, after all!
I say, just wait.  The only difference is I’ll be bigger, older, smarter, stronger, and know more words (and not the kind you were hoping I knew).

In a nutshell, take my age of 2, multiply it by 6, subtract 3 then take the square root and you have one of two things…someone with an aching brain from simple math or better yet, ME!

Look out world, I’ve got plans!

Wild, Wild West

I am easily enticed to behave during our frequent trips to the grocery store when the incentive is a ride on the mighty stallion “Sandy”.  For a mere penny, I can enjoy 60 seconds of blissful and imaginative heaven, envisioning the freedom of riding the plains on my trusty steed.

Then the music stops, my Mom puts me back in the cart and I’m sadly brought back to the reality of my non-horse existence.

Someday my Love, someday I will find a way to free you and we can fulfill our dreams of livin’ the good life.  Maybe when I'm 3...

Be Specific...

As you know, I always listen.  I always do exactly as I am told.
So when the instructions were given, “Please go pee before you get in the car.” I was happy to oblige.

Without question, I took myself out to the garage, opened the car door, stood on the running boards, relieved myself on the garage floor and got in the car.  I even hopped into my car seat and attempted to buckle.

When questioned about my motives, simply put, I said, “I go pee.  I get in car.”

Naturally, I was confused by my Mother’s disapproving reaction.  Put that deep sigh and eye roll away, Lady.  As far as I am concerned, I did nothing wrong.  As a matter of fact, I think a “thank you” is in order for my obedience.

Anything For My Girl

Being the chivalrous gentleman that I am, I will always willingly offer up the 5-point harness car seat for my lady Ellie to sit in, while I show off just how awesome I am, and sit in the high-back booster with the over-the-shoulder lap belt.

While the convenience of my sitting in this type seat is appealing, my spontaneity should be the overwhelming factor in the decision to upgrade my travel accommodations.  Case in point…

On the way home from a lovely date with my girl, I impulsively decided to unbuckle and relocate where I was sitting in the car.  My Mom was too busy paying attention to the road to even notice my repositioning…that is until Ellie ratted me out.

In her soft and demure voice, she calmly said “Why Brennan walk around?”

With that, I was caught.

Come on, girl!  I just took you to gymnastics followed by blueberry muffins and chocolate milk at Panera, and this is how you repay me?
Who am I kidding? My Ellie can do no wrong, and I will always come back for more.

So, it’s back to the 5-point harness for me, no matter how pitifully I plead otherwise.

Snapping Turtle

I’m growing.  You’d think that was a good thing.  After much debate and analysis, here’s what I’ve decided are the pros and the cons to this situation.

PRO: I can reach most of the light switches in the house.

CON: I can reach only most of the light switches.  What kind of sadistic builder puts only some switches within arms-length and the rest just a little higher?

PRO: The “good shelf” in the pantry (which has always been just above where I could reach) is now completely accessible.

CON: What used to be a seamless pass underneath the counter overhang has turned into a painful reminder for my frontal lobe that I have exceeded the height limit for passage.

PRO: I no longer need to stand on a stool when I use the little boy’s room (which is very helpful since my planning ahead needs some tweaking and I am usually in a hurry to get started).

CON: When the situation has turned to “emergency” because I inevitably waited too long, my mind is on relieving myself and not the physics of hinges.  As in, while simultaneously pulling my pants down and flipping the toilet seat up, I neglected to factor in the ricochet of the seat bouncing off the tank and back to its starting position.
The problem…In the nanosecond it took to flip the seat up, I have already positioned myself flush against the rim of the toilet and started to go. 
The result…Midstream, my delicate boy parts get crushed between the porcelain base and the plastic seat pinching together like the jaws of a hungry snapping turtle.
My reaction…In a rage I kick the toilet, punch the lid and yell “I NO PEE IN YOU!”

I think I’ve decided the PRO’s do not outweigh the CON’s.  I’m sure you all (at least my male counterparts) would agree.  My vote…no more growing.  I’ll let you know how that goes.

Growing Up

It’s about time that I am no longer subjected to sustaining a potential head contusion while simply trying to get out of bed.  After much denial, my Mom finally admitted that taking the front rail off of my crib was necessary for two very important reasons:
1. The obvious safety hazard of a small boy shimmying down the front of a much larger object to the unyielding floor below,
And
2. I AM ALMOST 3 & NOT A BABY ANYMORE!

You would think I was just sentenced to life in prison the way that woman cried and carried on.

She quickly got over her nostalgic cry-fest when I took the liberty of removing myself from my bed more times than necessary…all night long…just because I could.

Get used to it lady.  I'm growing up.  So don't blink.

Appetite for Excellence

I have very discerning taste buds and refuse to consume anything that offends my delicate palate.

The only problem, I’m two, and my Mother doesn’t think I should be afforded the privilege of making my own eating choices.  (To her credit, I do on occasion feel the need to taste what has come out of my nose and would try to survive on Starburst Candies alone, if given the chance.)

So when I come across something that I find particularly offensive, I have to get creative with trying to dispose of it in a crafty way.

For example, that tall green vegetable called asparagus.

It’s gross.  It looks gross, it tastes gross, it smells gross.  It has one redeeming quality…it fits perfectly in my straw.

Had it not been for my sisters laughing hysterically at my ingenuity, I would have quietly left the table and the Chef would have been none the wiser.

Come on gals, I thought we were on the same team!

Spiderman

Some of the obstacles I encounter throughout the day are really more entertaining than they are bothersome.  Take the dryer, for example.  It serves as both a great launching pad to spring into a cushy laundry basket as well as a fantastic stepstool to reach new heights.  Today I decided to use it for the latter.
Before you freak out, know that I am a trained professional and have been perfecting this move in my gymnastics class for months now.  My coach likes to call it “The Butterfly”.  I on the other hand, from now on will call it “The Aspiring Spider”.

The only answer I could conjure up when my Mom found me trying to scuttle my way atop the laundry room shelf was, “I need be up dare”.

Needless to say, my attempt was cut short by the destroyer of fun I call Mom.
What else is a 2 year old boy to do IN MICHIGAN, IN FEBRUARY?!?

Freedom!

Truism #1: I have been contained for 2 years, 10 months & 36 days.
Truism #2: I am smart AND I am resourceful.
Truism #3: I’ve got things to do.

They knew it was coming.  It was inevitable.

You would think my parents would have been better prepared for my unavoidable escape from the captivity of my crib.  I think they’ve been in denial.

The ease with which I can catapult myself over the edge, shimmy down the side, and stick a virtually noiseless landing is embarrassing to admit.  I’m sure I could have accomplished this months (if not years) ago and have chosen to remain inactive for far too long.

 My once 3+ hour long nap has been abruptly cut in half by my desire to have some unsupervised exploration time.  Let’s take today for example…

After quietly waking from my short slumber and making a stealth-like break out from the confines of my bed, I decided to investigate a long standing question in my brain: “Knobs?  What’s the point?”

Look closely, notice anything?  It took my Mom a few blinks to figure it out, too.

In my opinion, I found a much better place for them. I mean, what’s a dump truck with nothing to haul?

I look forward to sharing some of my other explorations and discoveries with you…stay tuned.

The Great One

As an incentive to listen and stay on task during class, we are rewarded with a sticker when gymnastics is through.  Typically my teacher puts the sticker of your choice on either your hand, or if you are feeling adventurous, on your cheek.

I, for one, do not enjoy stickers on my hand or my cheek.
They just don’t look cool.  They often fall off within the first five minutes of application.  Not to mention, have you ever tried to peel a sticker off your cheek?  It’s not fun.

So when my teacher brought forth my reward sticker, I thought I would try a little something different to entice the ladies…

Teacher: “Brennan, you did a great job in class today!  Here’s your sticker.”
Me: “Put it on my penis.”
My Mom: “Oh! My! God!”

To steal a line from The Great One, “You miss 100% of the shots you never take.”
It was worth the shot.  I think Wayne Gretzky would have applauded my efforts far more than my Mother did.

Licking Therapy

When life gets you down, just do what I do...
Lick things!

Don’t believe me?  Here are two examples of how licking things will dramatically improve your outlook:

 Example #1:
When I find something that I don't recognize, naturally my first instinct is to use my tongue to identify its origin.  Nine times out of ten it’s a pleasant surprise & my day just got better.

 Example #2:
If you are looking to enliven your day (and as an added bonus, a friend’s day as well), lick their cheek.  I have yet to meet someone who can’t help but smile when they think a sweet intentioned kiss is on the way & instead they get accosted by my lizard tongue.

 So go out, spread the love & enjoy a day of licking…you’ll thank me for it.

Pick-Up Lines

I know you fellas are always looking for some tried-and-true go to pick-up lines, so I thought I would compile some of my sure-fire lines that have gotten me more attention than my Mom cares to mention.

A few words of caution when attempting to implement the pick-up…
1) The delivery requires an exaggerated sense of innocence.
2) Chubby cheeks are recommended, but not required.
3) Annunciating every word is optional; a little mystery in the translation never hurt anyone.
4) When all else fails, pick your nose.  It throws them for such a loop they will forget all about the failed attempt at trying to impress them & they usually just quietly leave.

"Don't touch my boobs, I touch you boobs!"

"You pretty. There a tooty in my booty."

“Good morning ladies, where you candy?”

“Hi, I Brennan, I eat boogers.”

“My Dad a penis.”

“I cold, put me in you coat.”

“Where you put you money?”

“Look at dat…I spit on you.”

“Where you belly?  Show me!”

“I sleep in crib. I pee in potty.”

“You smell like peanuts.”

“My straw fit in my ear.”

“Dis cheese taste bad.  You try.”

“Put you head here, I give you haircut.”

“I go with you.  You carry me.  I wipe my nose on you.”

“Hello.  I pinch.”

And my personal favorite…

"You noodles, I sauce, lay down!"


These timeless clasics are sure to amaze and woo even the hardest nut to crack.
I, for one, will be using them for years to come.

Keep me posted on your success...

Cause & Effect

My day…

Wake up in a puddle of pee.

Fall down 4 stairs on my way to breakfast.

Throw my French Toast Sticks in the toilet.

Go to the Gym Childcare & immediately pinch one of my friends.

Tattle on myself to the Childcare worker & ask to be put in time-out.

After time-out #1, pinch another friend, tattle on myself & ask to be put in time-out.

After time-out #2, pinch another friend, tattle on myself & ask to be put in time-out.

After time-out #3, they page my Mom.

Elated to see her, I fess up to all of the shenanigans that have just transpired & say “I pinch, I go time-out, Mommy comes!”

Go to my Dad’s office to tell him about said incident at the Gym & spit all over the car window.

Take a long, quiet ride home because now BOTH parents are upset.

Fall off the chair while eating lunch.

Too damn upset to finish lunch, so I take a long nap.

Wake up from nap with a bloody nose.

Go to the bus stop to get my sister, slip on the ice & bruise my rear.

Make Valentine cards and manage to glue my finger in my ear & paper to my eyebrow.

Pee in my Mom’s rain boots.

Eat a big dinner (I was really hungry since my first two meals didn’t go so well).

Take a bath.

Get removed from the bath for dumping a mug of water on the floor.

Sit in the dark, quietly rocking with my Mom as she says our nightly prayers, hugs me & tells me she loves me. 

While I’m sleeping…

Mommy sits in the dark, in the tub with a washcloth on her eyes and a pitcher of Martinis.

Awkward Silence

Have you ever had the urge to just say what’s on your mind?  If the answer is “yes”, then we are cut from the same cloth.  I often have this urge, and unfortunately, haven’t developed the necessary “filter” that some (but not most) adults have formed. 

Case in point…

While waiting to check out at Gordon’s Foods yesterday, I had time to size up the cashier & decided I would ask him a few questions.  Unbeknownst to my Mom, I had been admiring her low-cut sweater all morning & noticed the cashier also marveling at the blue and green in her shirt.

So, when it was our turn to give the cashier our money, I said to him “You touch Mommy's boobs?  I touch Mommy’s boobs!”  With that, I happily gave her exposed skin a thump and a shake.

Behind the red of his cheeks, the clearing of his throat and his half-smirk, that mortified cashier managed to hand my Mom her receipt and mutter, “Have a nice day.”  All the while keeping his eyes diverted down.

My Mom said nothing; not even on the way home.

She must have a really good filter.

Operation Golden Shower

I've been busy.

My newest obsession has elicited words from my Mother such as unacceptable, disgusting, disconcerting & (my personal favorite) WTF?!?

The only word I don't understand why she keeps using is "WHY?"  (More on this later...)

Discovering the convenience and versatility of my favorite boy pee-stick has been nothing short of my most educational and entertaining escapade yet.
Not sure if you are aware, but boys can relieve themselves anywhere.  Now, when I say anywhere, I mean ANYWHERE, ANYTIME, ANYHOW.

I don't try to hide it, but I do enjoy the challenge of completing the task in record time.
My routine consists of the following:
1) Look innocent & occupied.
2) Wait for the opportune time (ideally it's when my Mom is distracted with a task).
3) Pull my elastic wasted pants down to my knees & let it fly!
4) Laugh maniacally & try to finish before my Mom can reach me.

I am not picky about where I go, although I have learned that trying to pull off this maneuver outside has proven to be a poorly thought out plan.  My last attempt landed me face down (and pants down) in the snow & that shock of coldness on the boy-parts can stun even a trained professional, like myself, to a screeching halt.

I have successfully managed to execute the plan I like to refer to as "Operation Golden Shower" in the following places:
the heat vent, the toy box, my car seat, on my sister at the dinner table, the pantry, the pots & pans cupboard, the dryer, the garbage can, anywhere on the floor, my sister's Barbie house, and the sink.  The list is really endless; as I'm sure my Mom has yet to find a few of my sneakier hidden locations.

My Mom is at a loss.
I've heard her say, "it's like we've adopted a puppy!"
She has resorted to pants with buttons (as I have yet to master the dexterity required to undo said buttons) & overalls.  Have no fear; I can pull them down just far enough to do what I need to do.

Now back to the "Why?"...
Really?  You have to ask?
I could give you the clinical answer, and say "I am the third-born, a 2 year old boy, that is vying for the attention of anyone who will give it to me, and attention is attention, positive or negative.  In addition, it is developmentally appropriate for me to experiment with my body, how it works, and use it to manipulate control, as I am not afforded much being only 2."

Or I could say WHY NOT?!?  It's hilarious!
Look at it this way, at least I'm not biting people anymore.
And this too shall pass...until the next phase!

I Wanna Be A Cowboy, Baby!

So, I've been thinking about a new career, and I think COWBOY is right up my alley!

My Calling

I think I have found my calling (and as an added bonus, a new BFF!).

Recently, I accompanied my sister on her class field trip to Boulder Ridge Wild Animal Park & would like to name it as my new favorite home-away-from-home!
While there "Reptile Rick" very eloquently explained how some of the animals "fling turds" as a defense mechanism.  I love this guy; he speaks my language!

I was able to pet AND hold this gator, I fed a Lemur, got bit by an Emu (only on the finger when I INSISTED Rick pick me up to feed it) and suffered a second bite by a baby Zebra (this time on the face when I tried to give that unappreciative animal a kiss).

I even let some of the more timid classmates feed me raisins because they were too scared to feed the other wild animals.

 

I was also able to steal a very brief ride from this free-range Tortoise.
PS ~ I am required "by law" to mention that the practice of riding Tortoises is both forbidden and frowned upon (luckily I have been dubbed "Little Dude" by Reptile Rick, so I think I'm good)

AKA: Basketball

The most amazing thing happens at the gym every time I am there...
The entire gym is filled with people shooting a big orange ball through a metal hoop hanging from very high in the sky.  I, of course, want to be a part of this exciting activity.

Today, I decided would be the day to interject myself into the fun.  And after easily breaking free from the limp hand hold my Mom had on me, I made a B-Line for the court.
I then loudly announced to the team of annoyed looking players, "I PLAY FAT-BALL!"
The game then came to a screaching pause in play for two reasons;

1 - I just took a header from the ball that was on it's way back to earth,
and
2 - The were having a hard time translating what I had said.  So I repeated...

"DAT MY FAT-BALL, I HAD IT FIRST!"
Annoyed Man: "Where's your Mother?"
Mom (trailing behind slightly): "Sorry. So Sorry."
Me: "YOU HAVE FAT-BALLS!"
Annoyed Man: "What?!?"
Mom: "Sorry, he just really likes Basketball & thinks he is 6-foot-6." (Attempt at a smile)
Me: "GIVE. ME. DA. FAT. BALL!"
Mom (picking me up & turning to leave): "He meant 'basketball'. Sorry. Have a Happy New Year."
Annoyed Man: "Get control of your kid."
Me: "FAT-BALL!"

My Mom thought that was enough said.
I on the other hand had more to say to that rude guy & between you & me...I think I could have taken him down.

Happy New Year?

My Mom looked up the definition of "New Years Resolution" & here's what she found...

4: a formal expression of opinion, will, or intent voted by an official body or assembled group

Since she made the following New Years Resolution FOR ME..."To strive to be a kind, thoughtful, polite, well-behaved boy (so Mommy doesn't resort to drinking)."
I thought I would oblige and put it to a "vote by an official body or assembled group"...YOU, my loyal B-Blog readers.
Please take the poll on the B-Blog page and help me out of this terrible predicament.

A BOY'S GOT TO BE A BOY & that usually has very little to do with being kind, thoughtful, polite, or well-behaved...at least in my world!