Life with my 25 year old brother and the little monster he's shaping in his image (i.e. my 7 year old son).

To catch everyone up: with a few breaks for college and my husband’s military training, I’ve lived in the exact same neighborhood most of my life. That all changed in December when, in what appears to be a far more permanent move, we packed up and moved to Arizona.

I was cautiously optimistic but deeply sad about leaving my family—especially since most of them also lived within that same neighborhood we’d always called home.

So it was a very welcome surprise when my little brother Brian revealed that he’d been approved to do most of his PhD research in the small-ish Arizona city of Yuma. Even better? He was bringing his lovely fiancée, Evie, with him.

Having two family members just three hours away is a hell of a lot better than having all of them thirteen hours away.

It was an even more welcome surprise when Evie decided she felt way too cooped up in their tiny Yuma apartment and asked if she could spend most weekdays living with us in Tucson. And let me just say—she has been an actual godsend. She helps with my two older kids, the baby, household chores, you name it. We pay her for her time (which she protests), but honestly, we don’t pay her nearly enough.

What was not part of the plan was that, for the first few weeks of summer, Brian’s workload would be super light—and he, too, would decide he was too cooped up in their one-bedroom apartment and crash at our house.

I’m 33 years old. I moved away from Brian when he was still at peak annoying (this is the same brother who once made a fake newspaper website announcing my boyfriend’s death in a car crash because the head cheerleader had allegedly been “giving him head” when it happened). I had no idea that 25-year-old Brian would somehow be even more annoying than 11 year old Brian.

To make matters worse, my 7-year-old son now thinks his Uncle Brian—with the incredibly hot fiancée—is the coolest person to ever walk the earth. So basically, I have two little brothers in the house right now.

Here’s today’s fun.

My husband had a drill weekend with the Reserves, so he was more or less out of pocket. The plan was that Evie and I would take my 9-year-old daughter, my 7-week-old baby, and head into town to visit the amazing used bookstore here in Tucson, go to Costco, stock up and have a lunch of $1.50 hot dogs and pizza. Whatever trouble Brian and TJ got into while we were gone? We’d clean it up when we got back.

I had my dream day with my girls.

When we got home, baby Ashley was hungry, so I settled into the rocking chair in my bedroom to nurse her. Saint Evie started organizing the kids and unloading the car. Just as Ashley was starting to latch, Brian emerged from my attached bathroom and said: “Sis, sorry to do this to you, but DON’T go in there!”

I blinked. “What are you doing in my bathroom? Use yours!”

“Oh, sorry sis—TJ was in there and I was about to shit my pants!”

“Brian, you’re fucking disgusting. Don’t tell me stuff like that!”

He just chuckled and said again, “Seriously, don’t go in there,” then left the room.

You’d think I’d notice I was being set up. But nope. I was focused on the baby.

So I wasn’t even suspicious when TJ came sprinting in a minute later yelling, “Sorry Mom, gotta take a piss!”

Before I could correct his language—because we don’t say “piss” in this house (well, the kids shouldn't at least)—he slammed the door shut. But he did seem like he really had to go, and honestly, I had a baby on the boob and zero leverage to worry about four letter words.

At first, it sounded normal. But 20 seconds passed. Then 30. Then a full minute.

He called out, “Mom, the pee won’t turn off!”

Okay… that got my attention. I could still hear a very active splash going in the toilet.

“Mom! I think I’m fine, but my pee won’t turn off! It just keeps going!”

I was trying to think fast. “Buddy, can you try to squeeze? What happens if you squeeze?”

“Nothing, Mom! And I think the toilet’s going to overflow with all this pee!”

Honestly, it sounded like it might. A solid, steady stream had been going for a long time.

I was stuck—I couldn’t move because I was nursing, and I was starting to get more than a little worried. So I called Evie.

“Hey,” I said. “Can you or Brian check on TJ? I think something’s really wrong. He’s been ‘peeing’ for two full minutes and Ashley is nursing.”

Evie rushed in. I told her he might need help flushing, or maybe just stick him in the shower and we’d figure the rest out later.

She nodded. “I’ll handle it. You stay put. We’ll get him cleaned up and then I guess we’ll call the nurse help line—I’m not sure!”

She opened the bathroom door, and I still heard the stream of pee—until I also heard the unmistakable thump, thump sound of several Nerf darts firing. Followed by hysterical 7-year-old laughter.

Evie screamed, “TJ! BRIAN! This isn’t funny—we were really worried!”

Then more darts whizzed from the hallway into the bedroom, Brian was now laughing just as hard as TJ. Blue and orange foam bullets zipped past me and Ashley. More zipped from out of my view from inside the bathroom. 

TJ came bursting out of the bathroom, laughing his damn head off. “Ha ha ha! We meant to get you, Mom! We got Evie too!”

I was completely immobilized with the baby attached to me, but thank God Evie did what I couldn’t—she went full Mom Mode.

“You and you. Get towels. Clean this up. This is ridiculous. Brian, you said you had work to do today. Work.”

Still a little worried, I asked Evie if TJ was okay—like, medically.

She came out holding our five-gallon Igloo water jug, the one we take to outdoor practices.

Apparently, Brian and TJ had set it up next to the toilet, pressed the spout, and that was the source of the endless pee stream. They had monitored our progress on Find My Friends to perfectly time the ruse.

I mean… I guess I had to admire the commitment. They fully fooled me.

Once they finished cleaning up the bathroom floor and collecting the Nerf darts, I asked Brian, “Is there any value in me being mad at you right now?”

He smirked. “No, probably not, Sis. I’d just laugh at you.”

And then, when I told him that Evie was definitely mad, that little cocky shit had the nerve to say: “She’s cute when she’s mad.”

That’s what it’s like living with your 25-year-old little brother.