"He can't help it. He was born that way."

Several months ago, a little girl in Braden's kindergarten class told her grandmother that she really liked Braden because he was so funny.  "What makes him funny?" asked her grandmother.  The little girl thought about this question for a moment and replied, "I don't know.  He just is.  He can't help it...he was just born that way."

I've thought about this comment many times over the last several months and, more often than not, I've  giggled over the trueness of the words.  She's right.  He was born this way and he can't help it.  Those of us who know him have concluded that his quirky comments and actions aren't usually a deliberate attempt to entertain; they're just a part of who he is.  Some people are born naturally athletic or musically talented, and still others are seemingly born with a paintbrush in their hands.  Braden seems to have been born with natural comedic timing.  Simply stated, he's always been funny.

One of my favorite memories of Braden in his toddler years was at about age 3.  If you asked him to do something he didn't want to do, he'd feign an inability to accomplish it.  And he was so creative about why he couldn't complete the task.  I remember once walking into the family room and seeing Braden sitting on the floor surrounded by a mess of toys strewn all around him.  "Braden, I said.  "Let's pick these toys up, please.  You've made a mess."  He looked at me and I could already see the wheels spinning in his head.  Without changing his position on the floor in any way, and without making any real effort to touch a single item,  he stretched his hand out toward one of the toys on the floor, made several grunting sounds and said, "I...can't...reeeeeaaaach...!"

Of course we laughed!  Who wouldn't laugh at a three year old with such creativity?

Several weeks later, I had put him to bed at his regular bedtime and (silly me!) expected that he might actually go to sleep.  Unfortunately, he'd recently moved from his crib to a real bed and the intoxication of being able to actually get out of his bed on his own and roam the house at will was too much for him. After about the twentieth time of putting him back in bed, I was angry and my voice was becoming deeper and louder and more forceful.  "Braden!" I snapped.  "You get your butt back in bed this minute before I really lose my temper!"  He looked at me for a moment, and again I could see those wheels a-spinnin' in his head. I knew it was coming...I just didn't know what!  Finally he said in the most angelic voice imaginable, "Okay, Mommy."  He took two steps in the direction of his bedroom and fell down!  He looked at me for a second and then got up to again make the trek to his bedroom.  He took two more steps and again he fell down!  "Mommy!" he said.  "I can't go to bed!  My legs are broked!"

And of course I laughed.  How could I not laugh?  Could you have remained stoic when presented with  such creativity?