They Call him the Streak...

On Saturday the kids went out in the backyard to play. While I run around the house folding and putting away laundry, I look out the window every now and again to assure that they are still in the fence and aren’t beating each other and they’ve been known to get into mischief. Like the time they took all the 2x4’s out of my neighbors driveway and brought them one at a time over to our yard in order to build themselves a house. What they thought they were going to fasten the lumber together with, I don’t know.


Of course you know that since I’m telling this story that mischief was afoot.

At some point between my glances out the window they managed to get into the garage, commandeer a shovel and return to the back yard. I’d swear it had only been a few minutes since the last time I looked out on them. But there they were- it took both of them to maneuver the big shovel- a hole in the middle of the backyard and two muddy little boys.

“What are you two doing,” I yell.

“Digging” replied the little one.

Thanks for the update, kid. “WC, put the shovel back into the garage and put your jacket back on.” It was cold and there he stood in a t-shirt. At this point, I don’t care why. Just stop.

I go back inside. A few minutes later, I check on them. And guess what? Oh my two, darling little angels were in the backyard- still digging. I take several deep breaths before opening the back door.

“Put the shovel up and get in this house, right now,” I yell. (sorry neighbors). “And you still don’t have on that jacket.” (Why did I bother to bring that up? Oh, yeah, I was mad that’s why.)

A few minutes later, two mad, muddy little boys were stripping in the kitchen. I ran them a bubble bath. “But it’s not bath time,” they protest. I gave them the ‘look.’ It only works on WC. CJ is almost oblivious to non verbal communication. So I tell him to get in.

They bathe and then use the time afterwards to run through the house stark naked. Then they each round the same corner going in opposite directions and collide- fall to the floor and CJ hits the wall.

He’s crying and WC is upset about hurting his little brother.

CJ recovers from most things extremely quickly. He barely cries when he’s hurt. He bounces off most things and shrugs it off. So it only took a minute for him to calm down. But WC runs to the laundry room to hide. I keep telling him to come back. But he announces he’s running away (still naked by the way). And this upsets CJ even more. He yells for his brother not to leave; he’s okay.

But I hear the door that connects to the garage open. No. He wouldn’t. He’s naked. Surely not. The door closed. I thought for a second he was still inside.

Then I heard him screaming. And see the flash of skin colored blur across the front window. My 8 year old is running bare ass naked across the front yard.

He runs up the front steps and starts ringing the doorbell and knocking at the same time.

I pull the front door open and he runs inside laughing.

“What in the hell are you doing,” I ask. I don’t usually use that word with the kids, but I think I get a pass on that.

He didn’t know.

Later he wrote about it in his journal. He showed me the picture he drew of what the neighbors saw. It was a stick figure with little round butt cheeks ringing the doorbell.

But You Said...

The day before Jay’s birthday, the boys and I made him a pan of his favorite chocolate brownies. He’s not a big cake person, but prefers brownies. This year it was a full team effort. WC measured all the ingredients (great for a math lesson that doesn’t feel like a math). CJ poured the measured ingredients into a bowl and they both took turns stirring.


We made dinner of some of Jay’s favorites- hamburger sliders and tater tots. His birthday this year coincided with the super bowl, so birthday dinner was appropriately matched to “game food.”

After dinner we sat around stuffed when the boys began to ask about the brownies. At that point the very thought of food made me nauseous. But my bottomless pit little guys have no problems being too full for dessert.

WC is nagging the daylights out of me. “When can we cut the brownies?”

I don’t know why I replied the way I did, but I heard myself say. “When someone cuts the cheese, that’s when.”

As if on cue, WC lets a long, loud, window rattling, earth shattering kaboom from his derriere.

It was one of those moments in which, as a parent, you don’t wanna laugh…but you have no choice.

WC happily jumps up from the table and heads across the room toward the pan of brownies.

“Boy, the cheese sure does stink when you cut it.” WC says as serious as can be.

This is what you do to paralyze your parents into being unable to stop you from getting into the dessert. We’re crying laughing, gasping for air trying to stop him and his little lackey from getting the knife out of the drawer and helping themselves. “No.” I manage to squeak out.

“What,” WC asks. “You said we could have the brownies when someone cut the cheese.”

You got me there, kid. You got me there.