The Brotherhood of Kids' Day

Dear Mom,

Now that Max is 11 and I'm 12, we’ve finally figured out your scam. Mother’s Day is a day invented by mothers. The truth is, you wouldn’t be having a day at all if it weren’t for us, so for starters, you’re welcome. There’s National Strawberry Day, Grandparents Day, Dog Day, Squirrel Appreciation Day, and even a Talk Like a Pirate Day. You failed miserably for never telling us about that last one.

When is Kid’s Day? Please don’t say “everyday” because if that were true, we wouldn’t go to school or bathe, ever. You told us Mother’s Day is a day for you to relax from all the things you’ve had to “endure" over the previous year. Your request that all you really want on Mother’s Day is for us to get along is preposterous. The reason we don’t get along is because we’ve never had a day to call our own.

So, this Mother’s Day we have decided to declare our own kid2 movement – get it? Two of us kids count. Anyway, we made a list of the reasons we deserve to be celebrated today based on just some of the things we have had to endure since birth.

We are well-aware by now about your daylight-saving tricks. Changing the clocks ahead randomly so we think it’s bedtime stopped working years ago. You do realize we don't live in Alaska, it's not light out at midnight in New York.

Or how you switch out our chosen delicious cereal for something that tastes like tree bark -thinking just because there is no picture on our box that we wouldn’t figure out you weren’t buying those bran flakes to bake something. Hello? You store your shoes in our oven. Remember that summer, when you made a roast for the first time, and we thought the house was on fire, then relieved, we questioned if Thanksgivings was moved to June?

We won’t even get into all those lies you told us about Christmas, and afterwards, the threats of coal, starting every January. In the end, we eventually knew your threats and the man in red - all faked. But we went along to make you happy based on your tricky rhyme - If you don't believe you don't receive. That song, "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." is really about all the little white lies parents tell their innocent children, isn't it?

Summers have had their share of issues, too. Like the time you made us get out of the town pool over poop, even though Max admitted it was his, he pooped in the bath all the time and no one cared. And there was There that minor incident when I accidently suctioned the toilet plunger to Max' back and the ER visit afterward. I finally understood the seriousness of not playing with such an implement, or even touching one again, for that matter. In our defense, we were obsessed with the Ninja Turtles and what better way to communicate with the sewer, than to flush such things down the toilet- apple cores, Barbie heads. Not our fault you went all-out for an industrial plunger the size of Yankee Stadium.

By the way, we blame Gogo for the Barbie heads, and you should've put a stop to your mother pushing Barbie and Ken dolls on us in the first place, just because she believed we played too violently. Of course, we immediately bent all four of the dolls at the hips at 45-degree angle and miraculously, they were guns. Gogo blamed you, but she did leave when we started throwing them at each other. We saw your grin when she said she would not return until we've had emergency family counseling. So, you’re welcome for that, too.

While we’re on the subject of turtles, on Take Your Pet to School Day – yep, even a day for that, everyone had cool pets, and not just dogs and cats, even snakes and a tarantula. You're allergic to dogs and cats unless they're hairless, and that's just what every little boy wants is a pet that looks like it survived Chernobyl. What exciting creatures did we have to show? Sheldon, the turtle and Gil, the fish.

Since you neglected to inform me to support the bottom of the cheap plastic turtle transport, Sheldon took quite the spill sliding on his back nearly 30 feet across the gym floor before coming to a halt at the snout of Tylor Munson’s Rotty who whimpered and yanked poor Tyler’s arm near out of the socket, pulling him in the opposite direction, away from Shelly, an apparent reptilian monster the size of an Oreo cookie, and who was inside his shell, faking a pet-rock.

Sheldon was ultimately fine, but had the sides been taped for extra security, my post-turtle-stress-disorder could have been avoided. Max knows the countless times you gave his goldfish the Viking burial down the toilet, as guilty as us flushing things, aren't you? Then, you sinfully replaced the dead Gils for new ones. Max could tell, but as one to take the higher road, he pretended not to notice.

And who can forget that Halloween when you got in trouble with the police because you thought there was a burglar in the house; why was that? You heard farting sounds at 2am. You tried to protect us with a gun that didn’t even have a clip. The police confiscated your gun because when they asked if you were registered, you thought they meant to vote.

Then, you gave us a long lecture about the right we had to bear arms – a God-given right you’d said. It was on our list, but did we get bear arms that year for Christmas? No, we did not. But we did get cash from Pawpaw and Gogo, so when we asked where we could buy bear arms, you’d laughed and said the same place where one buys turtlenecks. What does that even mean?

And the time we were shopping at the mall, and we had to use the bathroom – you tried to make us use the girl’s bathroom when the line was out the door, and we were doing the serious “pee-pee” dance, as you called it. Once Max spotted a female classmate from kindergarten smile at him from the line of girls, he was done. There was no line for the men’s room, so we somehow escaped your grasp, and went in through that heavy metal door without you. It was quite freeing to be honest and the start of a whole new era of our manhood.

We were having a fine experience but still heard you yelling parental gems from the other side of the door like, “Don’t touch anything!” By the time you finally barged in, Max had used more soap from the dispenser than he’d used cumulatively since birth and couldn't understand why that would anger you. And honestly, how could you not understand why I was drying my privates under that hot blower. Before I could suggest getting one for our own bathroom, a man entered. He checked the door sign to be sure he was in the right room, then went about his business, but we were gone like the wind. Having done nothing more that day than grow up a little, we still don’t understand why you never take us to the mall.

You assumed involving us in sports would be the answer to our peaking energy levels. You chose soccer because you knew the sport. As much as we appreciate your dedication as our youth league coach over the years, you often lost your cool over silly things like when we taped a “kick me” sign on your back or dumped the team's ice-water jug over your head even when we lost.

In hindsight, we realized coaching all that time, gave you the freedom to scream at us in public. And honestly, what good does yelling accomplish when you scream “Everyone get over here and line up in alphabetical order according to size!” What? And you screamed so loud, kids from miles away came to you like Children of the Corn.

The art of cross-country screaming with words of wisdom like, "Wake up!" was certainly not helpful when I was trying to protect a Monarch butterfly that flew in the net from getting killed by a flying ball. Yes, I was the goalie, but the butterfly was scared. I saved its life, and it felt way better than getting scored on three seconds later. Just sayin...

Coaching is lot of responsibility; you’d constantly tell other parents of you players– like trying to corral cats on a grassy field the size of Rhode Island. To those parents, you sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher, blah blah blah. You do realize those parents didn't give a swear jar word about game strategies or the next game. They just smiled because you were free babysitting for 2 hours.

During hundreds of games, your words of encouragement boiled down to less than ten words. "Pass it!", "Take the shot!", "Kick it!", and my all-time favorite "Run!" Yet you coached 6 and 7-year-olds like we were Manchester United. But only because Americans are under the impression that there's a "safety-guard" and a "field goal kicker," in the sport, did we win every season.

Other than you, the mothers played it cool, unless you put their kid in as goalie. Then, the flasks came out. Fathers on the other hand, paced the sidelines, reliving every sports moment they ever had and screaming those same phrases as you, at the top of their lung capacity. They'd slap you on the back with every goal and carry you on their shoulders with every win. What more could a woman want, ten muscle-head men, carrying you around like Lady Gaga? There was one Saturday night you needed to ice your tongue because you had screamed so much during our game you had to ice your tongue because the inside of your mouth was sunburned.

And for the record, there was really only two odd mishaps. The dad who wacked a kid from the opposing team with his sideline flag stick for meticulously slide-tackling his son and stealing the ball. The dad was never asked to assist as a sideline referee ever again, and then eventually was relegated to watch the game from his car. The other incident, if you can even call it that, happened on the pitch during a match when a player got clocked in the forehead by, of all things, a golf ball. No need to mention names, suffice it to say, you lived with both the thrower and the victim.

While we're being honest, we don't like church and never have. We will go this morning, so we can repent all the things we've done in the past week, and it will likely include this letter. How could you ever expect us to be serious at the very moment you whisper for us to, "Move quietly into the pew." What do you expect with that last word, tears? Of laughter, yeah.

Anyway, the seats are wooden and it's boring. Remember the time Max fell asleep. He just plain slumped-over like a sack of potatoes while you were standing and singing. You sat back down on his head. That was definitely not a very Christian-like thing to do, yet Max got in trouble.

Finally, one Sunday we found the most comfortable positions we could find while you stood in that mile-long line getting toast and wine. So, what if you came back to find just our heads resting on the soft velvet kneeling bench, our legs stretched into the pew behind us? Those people didn’t seem to mind, I couldn’t see them from down there, but I heard chuckling, until you yanked us both back up on that hard wooden pew like we’d fallen in a river.

And when you needed babysitters, who was there? Remember, your younger brother, Steven? The uncle who encouraged running with scissors, who stole the yield sign for me on my birthday and changed our street name from Mullen Lane to Mullet Lane. The pillow and spaghetti fights, the prank phone calls, and all the over-the-top antics. The uncle who always brought us for "Slurpee runs." He got us both mohawks at 2 and 3 -years-old, we were the OG's of the playground.

Okay, yes, he did take us to a topless bar when we were really little, but only once, Besides, we'd seen your breasts back in the day and it wasn't that interesting. Besides, at 4-years-old I thought it meant people walking around without upper bodies. which sounded super cool. You'd have never even known if he hadn't accidentally locked us in the car, but we only know all this because you told us. We fell asleep in our car-seats while he panicked waiting for you to bring a spare key. We even slept through the fire department showing up. You should have woken us up for that part.

A few years ago, you did take care of Uncle Steve when he was stabbed in the thigh at that hair-salon, no questions asked, which is so not like you. Though it all, he somehow managed to stay upbeat, even after he lost his job at Walmart for a DUI/hit & run with a motorized shopping cart. On a high note, he was excited he made News at Eleven that night. I know he says he loves prison, but the least you could do is make him a cake with a file in it or something. Oh wait, sorry, that’s right, there is no Brother's Day, is there?

I could go on, but we believe we have made our point. If we do not get to celebrate this day alongside you, as equals, we will go public about your obsession with the Housewives from everywhere and Honey Boo Boo. Or what about the contents of your bedside drawer? Or Aunt Daisy’s 11th toe displayed for years in a jar on Gogo's mantle. Or, that you only could only afford to cremate Gogos bottom half or as she referred to it – “her better half.”

So, it’s up to you. We will share this day from now on, or all your many little secrets will be revealed. After all, you've spent years telling embarrassing stories about us.

We do love you a lot, like a lot a lot, even more than all our video games and sweets we know you have hidden in the cupboard combined. But always remember, without us, today is just another Sunday.

Sincerely,

Your creators (aka Dylan and Max)

P.S. We also bought you chocolate, but we had to eat it because your new bald dog, Harry, may have licked it.