When me and my brother were younger, we called my brother Bumble. He must have been around 4. He was this adorable little thing. Such a cutie pie and Bumble was a very fitting name. He had a set of yellow and black tops and shorts as well, which made Bumble all the more fitting. Since a young age, he was very good at reasoning and negotiating. He would get into trouble, and we (dad, me, bumble) would have a discussion about things that we can and cannot do so as not to upset each other in the family.
We finished giving out our list to him and it was his turn to set a few rules for us.
We knew he didn’t have any rules for us, and so that infuriated him. “How dare they give me rules, I have got to give them one as well,” I imagine that is what he was thinking.
And so he was determined to set us a rule,”I don’t want you to call me bumble,” he said.
Dad and I tried to hide our grins. “But why,” dad said, “You are a cute little boy, you are a bumble.”
“Yeah, you are a bumble,” I piped in, in an annoying, older sister-ey way.
And to this, with a finger pointed right at me, he shouted with all his might “Don’t call me Bumble!”