By Jack

Okay, so here’s what happened.

It was Christmas morning and we were already, like, twelve presents deep. Wrapping paper everywhere. Mom looked like she was running a marathon in the living room. James was yelling about something that sounded like “BLOCKS! BLOCKS! BLOCKS!” because Santa gave him more magnetic tiles.

Which was awesome…

Except Santa apparently forgot that magnetic tiles weigh as much as a small car when you put them all in one tote.

So James goes, “Jack Jack help,” and I’m like, “Yeah, buddy, I got you.”

I grab the tote.

It does not move.

I try again.

Still no movement.

So I do what any responsible older brother does:

I call in Mom Backup.

Mom grabs one side, I grab the bottom, and we start trudging like we’re hauling treasure through a blizzard. And behind me? James. One hand on my back like he’s my personal hype man, grunting every time I grunt.

“UHHH.”

“UHHH.”

“UHHHHHH.”

He wasn’t even touching the tote.

He was just… moral support.

Very sweaty moral support.

We finally make it to the living room — which honestly could’ve been messier, considering the level of chaos we’d already achieved — and we dump the tiles onto the floor like we’re unloading cargo from Santa’s sleigh.

And then the real fun starts.

We decide to build the biggest tower ever for all our new cars. Matchbox cars. Monster trucks. The pizza car. The mini Monster Jam trucks. Basically anything with wheels and a questionable safety rating.

And while we’re building, we start singing:

🎶 He knows when you’re POOPING…

🎶 He knows when you are FARTING…

Mom pretended she didn’t hear us.

Classic Mom move.

James was copying everything I did.

If I stacked a tile, he stacked a tile.

If I made a car ramp, he made a car ramp.

If I farted—

Okay, that one’s private.

But then…

Then it happened.

James discovered that magnetic tiles…

can FLY.

One second he’s building next to me like a sweet little Christmas elf.

The next second he’s YEETING tiles across the room like he’s in the Tile Olympics.

“JAMES NO—”

Too late.

A blue square whizzed past my ear.

Mom yelled something from the kitchen that sounded like “BE NICE TO YOUR BROTHER,” which didn’t really apply because I wasn’t the one throwing architectural materials at people.

But honestly?

It was still the best.

Me and James, building our giant Christmas tower.

Singing poop carols.

Laughing so hard we fell over.

Tiles everywhere.

Cars everywhere.

Joy everywhere.

And even when he started tossing tiles like confetti, I couldn’t even be mad.

Because that’s my brother.

My little shadow.

My tiny chaos monster.

My Christmas Day sidekick.

And honestly?

I wouldn’t trade him for all the magnetic tiles in the world.

(But maybe next year Santa could give us a tote with wheels. Just saying.)

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James version: Tile Toss of Destiny

I woke up and it was Christmas and I knew immediately — TODAY IS MY DAY. I could feel the power in my toes. I marched into the living room like a king entering his kingdom and Santa had brought me MORE magnetic tiles because Santa understands greatness when he sees it.

But then I remembered the BIG tote in the playroom. The one that weighs more than Mom’s whole car. I pointed at Jack like a general sending his bravest soldier into battle and said, “GET. THAT.”

Jack tried to lift it.

It didn’t move.

He tried again.

Still didn’t move.

I nodded wisely, like yes, yes, this is what I expected.

Then he called Mom, and she came in like a warrior queen, grabbed one side, and they started dragging it. And me? I put my royal toddler hand on Jack’s back and GRUNTED with the force of a thousand Christmas elves. Every time he grunted, I grunted louder. I was the soundtrack. The engine. The hype man. The king.

We stomped into the living room like a parade of exhausted reindeer, and when they dropped the tote and the tiles exploded everywhere, I gasped so hard I almost levitated. It was BEAUTIFUL. A rainbow battlefield. My kingdom.

Jack said, “Let’s build a tower for all the cars,” and I said “YES,” with the confidence of someone who has never once considered consequences. We started building the biggest tower ever made by children or adults or anyone in the history of Earth. Tiles clicking. Cars zooming. Monster trucks crashing. The pizza car doing whatever the pizza car does.

And we sang:

🎶 He knows when you’re POOPING…

🎶 He knows when you are FARTING…

I sang louder than Jack because I am the king and kings must dominate the poop carol.

I copied everything Jack did with laser‑focused toddler intensity. If he put down a tile, I put down a tile. If he leaned over, I leaned over. If he breathed, I breathed louder. I was his shadow. His echo. His tiny chaotic apprentice.

And then…

Then I discovered my true calling.

I picked up a tile.

I felt the power.

I YEETED it.

It flew.

It soared.

It was magnificent.

So I threw another.

And another.

And another because once you start throwing tiles, stopping is illegal.

Jack yelled “JAMES NO,” but I was already in full Christmas berserker mode. Mom yelled something from the kitchen but I couldn’t hear because I was too busy being a legend.

Tiles flying.

Cars crashing.

Tower wobbling.

Me laughing like a tiny maniac.

It was perfect.

It was chaos.

It was Christmas.

And I, King James, ruled it all with sticky fingers and unmatched enthusiasm.

Long live the king.