When my brother was little, I think the story goes that he had to go to the doctor and have some ucky procedure done. To make things bearable, my mama promised him anything he wanted, “especially a fire truck.” This is a big deal – my mama does *not* subscribe to the bribing-parent camp: you do it because you *should*, not because you were cajoled. So this must’ve been a big deal: it wasn’t a bribe, but rather a reward – a serious reward. We joke anytime JJ does something exceptionally wonderful or has to deal with exceptional crud that we’ll get him a fire truck: even strong-willed Harkins women have their softie levels.

Yesterday evening, after an intense day of playing with the Little Man, I was engaging in some baking therapy. I just needed some space: sanctuary from the constant, “No”, “Put that back”, “Stop”, “You can’t eat graham crackers for dinner”, “Please sit at the table and eat”, “Take your nap”, “Where did you put your pants *this* time?” However, JJ had other ideas in mind, mostly that I needed a sous baker. After a number of refusals to take out his stool, he promptly walked upstairs, dumped out the contents of his Lego container, threw it down the stairs, and pushed it into the kitchen so as to “heping? heping? heping?”

He was hanging out by the fridge, playing with the Half Pint ultrasound pictures. I started to get into barking mode:

“JJ, don’t.”
“There!”
“JJ, leave those alone.”
“Das my bubba.”
“JJ, I mean it . . . wait, what did you say?”
“Das my bubba.”

One evening last week, we showed the pictures to JJ, asking him if he could say “brother.” His look was that of if we asked him to say “onomatopoeia.”

He took the pictures off of the fridge, but at that point, I was a mushy puddle on the floor and didn’t care. I told him to show them to Dad and tell him who it was. Very proud of his new trick, he walked to the top of the stairs and told Dad “Bubba, das my bubba.”

He’s SO getting a fire truck.

JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures