Monday, December 17, 2012

A Hot Mess

Brock has been on a roll.  I get a text from nearly everyone he hangs out with about the things that come out of his mouth.  They must have based the show, "Kid's Say the Darndest Things" off of 4 year olds.
The other day, my mom texts me informing me that I need to feed Brock more broccoli. He had apparently kicked his brother, and when asked why he did it. He explained something along the lines that the water from the pipes in his brain that run to his arms and legs were not working because broccoli is what feeds it...right.

My text from Matt this morning:
"Daddy, can I play with your phone?"
"That sounds like music to my ears." ...really?
Kerry told me she went upstairs that day after we set up the new bunk bed, to see if Brock and Curtis really were asleep for nearly 4 hours, and she found Brock chilling on the top bunk with my sunglasses on, reading books.  When she asked if he wanted to come downstairs, he groaned and said, "Can I not just relax? I am trying to read here after my nap."  He soon came downstairs and stated, "I feel old after reading all those books."

Leah walked in on him playing Angry Birds, and he let out a loud, "YES!!"  She inquired as to what was so exciting.  Brock explained that he had just conquered a level that he really wanted to beat. So Leah said, "You go, girl!" He then gave an extremely long, loud, exaggerated fake laugh.  She asks what that was all about.  His response? "I just think it's hilarious when people say You go girl."  Um, how many times you heard that one, Brock?  Is it a common saying on the playground these days?

These represent only a few samplings of the daily Brockism occurrences.  These are in addition to the infinite number of explanations containing comments about how his belly told his heart that he wanted gummy bears, or his heart told his brain, or well, his heart tells a lot of his body parts to do a lot of things.  And when he feels he's been wronged in some way (usually because he didn't get a fruit snack or a Sprite or something like that) he will now give a tirade in front of that damn elf.  Fizzlee Cupes gets an earful pretty frequently. Or how a "little bit can turn into a lot, at night (or in the daytime, or in the car or, with whichever modifier is appropriate at the current moment)" pertaining most frequently to the number of minutes he has left to play with his cousin, or how many minutes he gets to play before bed, or the number of Skittles he gets, etc.  Everything is a negotiation with this child. Everything. Always has been. Thinkin' it always will...

Brock and I were headed over to my mother's house to pick up some Christmas lights for our family photo shoot, riding in the new Mercedes.  This was only Brock's second time in the car and you could sense his excitement.  He couldn't talk fast enough, pointing out every single item in sight within and without the car.  Then suddenly, he blurted.  "Mommy?"  Yes, Brock?  "You're a hot mess!"
No dear, that, I know for certain you have got wrong.  If anyone is a hot mess, it's YOU.

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