Just a few of my favorites (and I have many):
- Ice diapers (genius!) (Darwin wanted to know if a maxi pad would work as well?)
- “And then I thought: if a goddamn monkey can do it, I sure as hell can.”
- “NEVER EVER talk to a mother of an ‘easy’ baby. EVER!”
Now, all about me. All this baby stuff got me thinking about—NO, not about having another one!—about my own childhood. Coincidentally, as I was cleaning up some files I discovered some old photos.
I’ve written before about how I didn’t like being a child—I found the powerlessness awful, and I had very few carefree experiences. But looking at these pictures, I was struck by how very unhappy I look in almost every one of them. See what you think:
This one is hilariously—oh, I don’t know the politically correct term, but let’s say underprivileged Caucasian:
This one I remember really liking, believe it or not (awkward age, anyone?):
The happy toddler in this one is my little sister; I’m the one huddled in the background:
“Playing” in front of our house:
My main pleasure in life at the time—and evidence of where HB gets his love of tight colorful outfits:
At my grandparents’:
About to perform in a play for a Medieval Renaissance festival (don’t I look festive?):
And finally, fun times at the beach:
My conclusions? I am happier than ever to be an adult, and I should worry less about HB’s childhood experiences, because it does get better.