Funny Childhood Stories (With a pinch of mild TMI)

Well…this is beyond embarrassing, but it’s too funny to keep to myself. My mother was being nostalgic and suddenly launched into an infinity and one stories about me and my brother when we were little. She told me that until I was ten months old, I cried every hour on the hour at night. Then, she got this funny look on her face; you know, when you’re trying hard not to laugh. My mother told me that when I was about three or four months, I was severely constipated. Apparently, she had given me medicine and it only helped a little. Then, she said that at two o’clock in the morning, she checked on me and she said my face was purplish blue! She shrieked and pulled my father out of bed. As though he had been given a shot of pure adrenaline, my father raced to the hospital with me (and my bluish face) in my mother’s arms.

Well, now this is the embarrassing part. My mom said that the doctor said I was quite conscious and my blue face was because of my severe constipation. Lord, this is embarrassing, but hilariously funny. So, my mom said what the doc did to figure out exactly why I was this constipated was…

Stick his pinky finger up my butthole.

He said my rectum was slightly longer than most babies, and that’s why I was so constipated. He gave me medicine to make my blue hue go away and relieve my bowels.

Go ahead and laugh. Every time I think about this story, I’m going to clench my buttocks together.

Okay, it’s not about me, but my brother … He’s in his thirties now, so I doubt he’s sensitive about it anymore. Apparently, when he was about seven years old, he decided that he didn’t like his name anymore. Therefore, as logic would dictate, he changed it. Henceforth, he would be known as Fred Johnson.

Very strict about it, as well. Not Fred. Not Mr. Johnson. Fred Johnson. If he was out playing with his friends and mom called out his name for dinner, he wouldn’t flinch. She couldn’t yell out “Fred!” because he wouldn’t come. Yell out the full name Fred Johnson, though, and he’d come running. I don’t know exactly what happened, but it eventually faded.

This is the same brother who asked for a vacuum cleaner for Christmas before the age of 10.

Story 1.

When I was younger (two?) and didn’t know the concept of buying goods, I used to think that all people did in a store was take whatever they wanted and leave. So… I took a pear…

stuck it in my panty…

…and waddled away.

As we were leaving, my mother asked me why I was walking so oddly, and if I had to use the bathroom. Suddenly (I really don’t know if Mother made this part up or not), the pear fell out. :o

Needless to say, the store owner said I could keep it.
Story 2.

Back when it wasn’t known that I needed glasses, and before he died, I was out in the supermarket with my father. It was winter, and people were wearing various types of coat.

I got lost in the store for a while, and saw from behind (and a few feet away), my father. So I ran to him, jumped on his back, and said “DADDY!”

Only… it was somebody else. Cut to Daddy laughing hysterically, going over to the man, apologizing, AND picking me up at the same time.

Story 3.

Back at the supermarket, mother and I went shopping. We used to live in an apartment, and the pest problem was a bit out of control.

Upon seeing roach spray whilst we were on the line, it is reported that I said “LOOK MOMMY! ROACH SPRAY! GET SOME, MOMMY!” To which Mother replied sharply, “Shh, be quiet, we don’t have any roaches!”, and in my childish innocence, I said, “OH YES WE DO, MOMMY! BIG ONES!”.

Mother tells me that she felt that classic Motherly “oh-god-won’t-the-floor-open-up-and-swallow-me” feeling.

When I was little, I thought the New York Stock Exchange and the American (?) Stock Exchange were some sort of sports team.

I started keeping track of who “won” each night based on what Walter Cronkite reported on CBS Evening News.

My father got a huge kick out of that, because I’d go run to my room and write down the “scores” on a piece of paper I had stuck to my mirror.

Pffft. Y’all got nothin’ on my childhood stories. I’ll try to do these in chronological order.

At about 1 year old, I received my first disciplinary action. We had these lamps with little knobs to turn them on and off. I decided to unscrew the knobs, and I was told to stop doing that. Of course I didn’t stop, and my mother gave me a time out. According to her, I turned beet red and just screamed with indignation, because who was she to tell me what to do?

Around that same time, I had this MAMMOTH orange pacifier, which I referred to as “dot.” I would suck on it vigorously, and then I would pull it out. And I would scream my fat little head off (I had a lot of baby fat), because someone had taken away my dot.

A little later on, when my parents were trying the restaurant thing again, I was in a high chair at the end of the table. As is not uncommon among littl’uns, I had a tendency to tilt the chair back by pushing with my feet against the table, so my dad had his foot firmly planted on a front lower rung of my high chair. Unfortunately, he lifted his foot for just a second … and WHAM! I was horizontal on the floor. My mom was in hysterics, I just kept telling her, “I’m fine, Mom, I’m fine.”

My grandparents have an inground pool, and once when I was about 3, I was sitting on one edge with my feet in the water, my mother beside me. I was sitting right above the thermometer that was in the water, and I decided I wanted to see what temperature it was. I leaned over a little further, a little more … My uncle had to jump in fully clothed to save me.

At a chinese restaurant, after I had outgrown high chairs, I was sitting in a booth and there was a large bowl of sesame noodles on the table. I decided I wanted some, so I dug the serving utensil in deep and yanked - up. At first nothing happened, but soon enough a handful of noodles was flying through the air, and landed on some poor fellow 3 or 4 tables behind me. We didn’t go back to that place for 10 years (and that incident is another story as well, but not as funny).

My little sister’s first words were “don’ bovver me,” which should give you an idea of how I treated the little tyke. In fact, my parents used to send me to this one house where a lady ran a daycare business, and this caregiver lady would give me various little baby toys that I was to pass along to my mother, destined for the new infant. I, of course, would have no part of this, and when the caregiver lady asked my mom how she liked the toys, my mother had no idea what she was talking about. When I was queried about this, I reportedly responded: “This baby gets nothing!”

Another good story about my sister. I was lying on my stomach watching TV, and unbeknownst to me, she toddled over to the kitchen, opened up the drawer, pulled out a wooden spoon, toddled over to me and mercilessly whacked me on the head with it. My parents would have had an easier time punishing her if they hadn’t been laughing so hard.

I actually locked the babysitter out of the house once. I shit you not. It was probably around this time that my grandfather started calling me Calvin. I swear, Bill Watterson might have just been following me around and taking notes, and you’ll believe it too after you read the next few stories.

A local sporting goods store, around the time of elementary school little league, had just purchased and installed and programmed a new cash register. I reached up and started pressing buttons at random, and I’m told I completely cleared it out.

I turned off the lights in a social security office. Again, no joke. This really happened.

I cut the cord on the house phone in the kitchen (back when phones had cords). Apparently while one of our au pairs was on the phone with her grandmother, too. Of course, by this time I was old enough to actually comprehend what I had done and why it was wrong, which is why this is really the last of the good, juicy stories.

Ivyboy did this once. He was old enough to put stuff in the sink, and he was young enough to be excited by this. Ivylad gave him his coffee cup to put in the sink. Ivyboy walked three steps toward the kitchen, stopped, turned around, walked back to his father, and hit him upside the head with the cup before returning to his chore.

I fell out the chair, screaming, and convinced Ivylad that if it had happened to me, he would be laughing just as hard.

Ivyboy never said a word. It’s like he started to put the cup in the sink and remembered that he had forgotten to do something with it first.

Nice try. I’m not falling for that again.

When I was four years old and my mother and step father were courting, we went to Carrows for dinner. My step father got fajitas or something like that. I said I wanted a tortilla, so he jokingly tossed one on my plate from across the table (to make me laugh, I’m sure).

I found this hilarious. So I picked one up to toss on his plate, but I over calculated the approach. The tortilla flew over Step Dad’s shoulder and landed right on top of the man in the next booth’s head. He was really bald and REALLY angry.

I started freaking out and mom took me out of the restaurant. Apparently bald man wasn’t mad, just suprised. I was still upset.

I don’t remember this, but my mother tells the story about me in the first grade. The teacher would call my mother and tell her to come and get me out of class.

Was I being bad or disruptive?

No. I would finish my work quickly and then go to other student’s desks and help them do their work.

Oddly enough, I still do this at work.

Pfft, once I threw my mother’s purse down an open manhole. Too young to really realize what I had done.

And stuck a hair pin in the TV and blew it up. And squeezed a drop of water onto a hot lightbulb and blew that up.

I knew exactly which thread you were linking to, without clicking. :slight_smile:

I have no memory of this, but I apparently came home from my first day of kindergarten and, not knowing the exact meaning of the word but knowing it wasn’t a compliment, called my little brother a shithead.

The weirdest thing about this story is that I didn’t know about it until I was in college! In my family, that’s a miracle – they looooove stories like that.

When my brother and I were little and we’d go stay at my grandparents’ house, it was our tradition to go snuggle in bed with Nana & Papa in the mornings. One time when my brother was maybe 5 years old, he was burrowing around under the covers. He was being nice, stroking my grandmother’s ankles, and then popped his head out from under the covers and said with true child’s innocence: “Nana, if your ankles are so smooth, how come your face is so cracked?” :eek:

We still haven’t really let him live that one down. :smiley:

My brother put a peanut butter and jelly sandwich into the VCR at one point because he thought it was hungry. The kicker was that he put a tape in after he put the sandwich in. After we replaced that VCR I got home from the dentist and figured the new VCR needed to brush its teeth, so I put some toothpaste in there and spread it around with a toothbrush. After that VCR was replaced I think my brother poured some milk into the new one because he thought it was thirsty.

One time when I was around four and my brother was five or six he stole my favorite Barbie doll and cut off all the hair so she had a buzz cut. I was so mad at him I bit him hard on the arm. It bled pretty badly and he nearly needed stitches.
…He deserved it.

Then there was the time I lit my brother’s leg hair on fire using a mosquito candle…

Huh?? :confused:

I tried to swipe a gun from a cop.

When I was about two or so, Mom and I were in a department store (Sears or JCPenney’s, something like that.) I told her, loudly, “Look, Mom, there’s a COP!”

Yes, there was a uniformed police officer. Mom shushed me, and then I proclaimed, “AND HE HAS A GUN!” And then I ran up to him and tried to wrest his gun from the holster.

The nice officer turned and gently pried my little fingers off his gun, knelt down and explained to me why little kids should never-ever-ever-ever touch guns.

Mom just tried to drop through the floor.

I don’t get it either…

Anyways, these stories are so funny. I’m trying hard not to laugh out loud because my parents are asleep right now… :smiley:

DarkSideoftheFloyd, I did something like what you did with the hair pin and the TV. I was playing with my mom’s housekeys and I saw the electric socket in the wall. I stuck the key in there, but luckily my mom pulled me away and she said the carpet nearly caught on fire. :eek:

After being told to clean up the bathroom after taking a shower, I proceeded to vaccume all the water up off the floor. The next time mum used it, yes, it blew up.

That’s one of the first things my brother (six years younger) shared a punishment for me with - how were we supposed to know that throwing a wet washcloth on a lightbulb would make it explode?

When I was a baby my parents thought it was *so cool * that I learned how to speak in complete sentences - which people could even understand - before I was a year and a half old. Alas, the fact that toddlers, no matter how well they speak, have no concept of tact dented their pride a bit…

Things I reportedly said by my second birthday:

“Daddy! Look at that nurse! Isn’t she the fattest lady you’ve ever seen? She’s the fattest lady I’ve ever seen…”

“Mommy, do you know what that man has in his cart?” [mom says no] “Three little bastards!”

tugging on the coat of the man in front of us in line. “Mister! Mister! You farted in my face!”

To the question “where did you get that pretty red hair?” My dad would insist I got it from him, not my mother who actually has red hair too. Indigent, I’d say “No! I got it from mommy! You don’t have any hair, take off your hat and show them!” If it bothered him, I think he would have stopped saying that :stuck_out_tongue:

I wasn’t until after I was three or four that I really understood that saying things could hurt people’s feelings - now I really feel bad about asking an elderly woman why she had a mustache like my Daddy.

Then there’s the home movie of me assulting a kid (baby goat) with a box of popcorn…it tried to take it from me, so there I am in a stroller wacking the hell out of it with the box. I’m surprised the petting zoo didn’t kick us out.

Read enough in that thread and you’ll see Sampiro say things to the effect of “…but that’s another story…” many times. Turns out these only lead to more stories with even more “but that’s another story” references, and before we know it, this thread might turn into a multi-page monster as well! (Course, if it’s as entertaining as the other one, I’ll be thrilled.)

I think Sampiro should change his name to Scheherezade. He’s in the middle of telling a story about how his sister thinks hurricanes are God’s punishments against gays, mentions his pyromaniacal grandmother and her lobotomized twin sister and their house full of cat litter…but that’s another story.