The Little Monster

So I'm home for the holidays. That's right, South Carolina baby! 

And I'm super excited to be home. To relax, hang out. Depart from the chaos of Dallas...

Until I remember that I'm a Festa. Chaos is our life, and home is no different. 

First story: I have a little brother named Patrick. He's 7. Yes I said 7. I realize how big an age difference there is. And we call him Little Monster. 

Why, you may ask? I mean he's cute, he looks harmless enough. 

Here's why. 

So I was talking to him the other day about taking karate, and jokingly asked if he was going to use his new skills to beat up my dad. My dad is a crazy. I mean a legit crazy, and would probably be impressed if Patrick attempted to kill him with a karate chop to the neck. 

Anyway, Patrick says no, dad is too big and he is small. To which I so wisely respond, "You know Patrick dad is getting pretty old. I mean, in a few years he'll probably be in a wheelchair and then you'll be able to beat him up." 

Now let me explain a little bit first. If you know me and think I'm a little arrogant, let me tell you, I have NOTHING on my father. He is full blooded Italian, louder than me, more obnoxious than me, and even more conceited than I am. Because of this my three brothers and I make it our lifelong goal to try to bring his self-esteem down to a somewhat normal level. We call him old, we tell him he needs to get into shape, etc, etc. This may sound mean and perhaps even cruel, but you do not know my dad. Nothing phases him. Nothing. His response is always, "Give me a month. Give me a month and I'll beat you running a mile. Give me a month, I'll bench more than you" (said to my 6'2", 250 pound football playing brother, obviously not to me.) Just one month, no matter what it is. He probably could build you a house in a month according to him. 

So I digress. These are a few of the many reasons that my above comment to Patrick is funny and not cruel. We're Italian. We tease each other. It's what we do. Until... Dad calls me right before I go home to tell me that he was joking around with Patrick, picking on him, and Patrick blurts out "You're going to regret that. When you are old and dying, I'm going to punch you in the face!"

To which I have to respond, "I might have had something to do with that" before busting out laughing. 

And then I get home to find Patrick playing outside with my brother James (the above mentioned huge football player). Patrick proceeds to throw the ball no where near where James can catch and when James misses states, "And that's why you got red-shirted." (Sweet little one doesn't know that's a good thing, he just knows it means James didn't get to play this year).

This is the same kid who called my dad a shithead. Yes, shithead. And my dad laughed. He laughed! The same kid who stated, "You know dad, sometimes everything isn't all about you." 

I know you probably think I come from a horribly disfunctional family. And you would probably be correct.

But rather disfunctional than boring I say.