And since with 3 boys age 6 and under you can't have too many hands, I told Mom-E I'd meet up with her at the store.
I parked and went in. I search up and down the aisles and couldn't find my crew. So I called Mom-E to ask "What aisle are you in?"
Turns out she was still trying to get the boys into the store, who were "helping" her with no less than 2 screaming/whining voices and 4 flailing limbs.
Apparently, Big and Little Brothers--who recently have been fairly obsessed with
Knowing that uttering the words french fries, lemonade, or chocolate milk would spell "certain death", Mom-E carefully replied, "They have hamburgers and pickle juice."
"What's pickle juice?" queried Little Brother.
"Ask Dad-E." Mom-E deferred.
And so when I met up with my "Tantrum Bunch", the first words out of Little Brother's mouth were, "Dad-E, can I have some pickle juice?"
Sensing that this was a signal for an impending ambush, it was clear that Big Brother and Little Brother were HANGRY (Hungry + ANGRY), and that it was only a matter of time before their tantrum escalated to our family picture appearing on the store's "Do not let these people in" Wall of Shame.
So, to give Mom-E free arms with which to battle the tantruming duo, bab-E Brother and I slipped off to purchase a snack for the hangry boys. Two minutes later I had purchased two bottles of
"What's that?" Little Brother asked upon my return.
"Pickle juice." I replied without hesitation.
Fortunately, the boys took well to the "liquid calm," and it exerted its desired effect.
We "survivied" the store and made it home.
Since then, Little Brother has been very attached to his bottle of "pickle juice". (He knows it's chocolate milk, but still likes to call it that.)
He was adamant that the bottle remain next to his bed while he sleeps (and then empited and washed out in the morning and filled with fresh pickle juice.)
A related tangent--next to his bottle of pickle juice, Little Brother keeps a plastic cup with a purple lid. Inside the cup are the treasures of a 3 year-old: a few pennies and a little stretchy rubber figure.
The funny part is that Little Brother has named the figure "Little Bro" after himself.
It's all Mom-E and I can do to not laugh when he goes around asking us, "Where's my Little Bro?"
The same night as the "Pickle Juice Incident", Little Brother had to go potty before bed. But prior to going into the bathroom, he was carfeul to seal his figure safely in his plastic cup.
"I don't want to get poop on my Little Bro," he delcared, rather nonchalantly.
Wise choice, my man. Wise choice.
So what's on your nightstand? I'm guessing it's not pickle juice and a rubber figure with your namesake.
Have a good weekend,