Archive for the ‘the pistol’ Category

swimmin boy fish kid

I was with my sister and nephew on a beach in Spain. It wasn’t a nudist beach, but apparently sometimes stuff just happens.

My nephew had just come to tell me, “Jesus walked on that water. I vomited in it.” Though geographically challenged, he was still cute.

On the blanket next to us, a guy and girl somewhere between 18 and stupid decided to have an all out wrestling match tongue included. I decided we should probably leave before my nephew caught on.

But my timing was a little off, because he was suddenly filled with righteous indignation saying, “You’re not allowed to fight with girls. They’re not as tough as us.”

As heads began turning, I grabbed his hand and started towards his mom and the car.

But my nephew wasn’t done yet. He loudly spewed some of his mother, saying, “You’re in  trouble. Wait until your father gets home.” Not quite finished, he yelled over his shoulder. “Give her her shirt back. You are in so much trouble young man.”

When I found my sister, his mother my parting words were – “Here that’s your.” Before I left her with my nephew.


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Some of you may remember my young nephew the Pistol. His one and only Grandpa died. Now the Pistol and one of his cousins Katie are the youngest of their siblings. The other kids are teenagers.

The main service was over and family members were coming forward to relate their stories. The adults went first followed by the teens. No one thought about the five year olds. In awesome Pistol style, my little nephew stood up and loudly announced, “I have something to say.”

The Pistol climbed the steps up front. And he began.

“Grampa won’t be able to give Katie rides on the tractor anymore, because … well … he’s dead. And now I would like to sing God Bless America.”  At which point, he began belting it out. The audience rose and joined him.

It was a lovely way to end a funeral. Pistol, you’re awesome

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 My nephew, the Pistol is five and in kindergarten. He brings home a folder everyday in which the teacher puts a smiley or frowny face and my sister is required to sign it.

When my sister asked for the folder, the Pistol said, “That folder is filled with lies, written by a liar.”

Of course it was a frowny face and read, the Pistol pulled his pants down and sat on a table.

When questioned further, the Pistol replied, “No, I pulled my pants down, then up and then sat on the table.”

His teacher told my sister not to worry about it. It’ll be better once he’s moved to the gifted program.

What the teacher really meant – “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be better once he’s out of my class.”

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