This is the time of year when all kinds of great nostalgic information comes out about famous people, both living and dead, and their respective holiday traditions. The First Lady’s favorite hot cocoa recipe gets printed in magazines, biographies about noted figures who passed away this year get published, and so on. Not to be outdone by actual famous people because I really hate not being the center of your attention, here is a photo for all of you to enjoy, a mere peek into my childhood. I hope it explains a lot.
Yes, I am the morose-looking child with my hands over my ears. This would be an excellent time for analysts to speculate on my mental health a la’ Sylvia Plath (“…there were clear signs at an early age, an attempt to shut out the world around her and block the myriad voices that spoke to her in her head, as evidenced in this early photo…”), but sadly, no. My hands are up because my brothers kept trying to put their fingers in my ears. See the brother kneeling next to me, his arm lovingly behind my back? That’s not a hug, dear readers, he’s going for the sneak attack.
The real victim in the photo is actually the baby. That poor thing never stood a chance. We all towered over her and outweighed her by a good bit by the time she was born. The photo has faded somewhat so it’s possible that you can no longer see the fact that she’s covered in a blue glaze. It’s from the fabric softener we had just poured on her, Snuggle, if I recall. Why, you ask. Because we had put her in the washing machine, obviously. Who knew that she could climb out of it without help?