When my parents came over for the Mother’s Day Feast over the weekend, my dad came bearing some gifts – in the form of giant bags full of old random schoolwork and notebooks which have been tucked away in their basement for the past 10-15+ years or so. I get pretty frequent complaints about this, rightly so I suppose, since I’ve never taken the time to go over and sort through it all (throw it all out) – and because, you know, they desperately need that space for something. Anything. Doesn’t even matter what. As long as it’s not my junk.
So, naturally this meant my wife and I would have to take a little peek into my childhood as we sorted through it all.
It wasn’t all good.
I was never the best student. Apparently, even from the very beginning. Shocker, right?
There also seemed to be some indication from a pretty young age of my future with food.
I was a dreamer. Daydreamer, anyway.
And something of an artist too, if I don’t say so myself.
Clearly, Christina hid behind the house – the house that was stoned and also surrounded by a moat – and pushed the Pillsbury Doughboy, without his hat, out into the moat on a box.
Also, Christina had some challenges with acne.
Also…
There was cake.
It was in a big box.
