Yesterday afternoon, I spent an hour digging through plastic bins full of artwork, grade reports, stories, and relics from my childhood. Aside from the warm fuzzies provoked by nostalgia, it was incredibly funny revisiting my youth from my teeny, first-person perspective.
I had an imagination the size of Godzilla. If there was any definitive indication of who I’d become as an adult, it was in the contents of those bins; original fairytales, plays, paintings, floor plan drawings, crafts, photos, a self-portrait with a crown. All riddled with good-natured humor and spunk.
But this was a gem worth sharing.
In what must have been first grade, judging by the dates, I created a handwritten journal using prompts from our teacher to practice writing. While my grammar and spelling needed some fine-tuning, my handwriting was pretty damn impressive. Even at six, I had a pretty solid grasp on life.
You know, life’s finer things.
I revoke the brother-vanishing comments.
Preach, little momma.
I legitimately have zero recollection of a “chicken casserole” from my youth. But turkey sandwiches are the truth.
What six-year-old plays golf?
Fact: I recycle constantly.
This happened on Sunday.
High-five, woman.
Thank you, six-year-old self, for practicing superb dental hygiene. Just wait until braces.
Nailed it.
And you will write so many stories.
Never lose your kindness.
Again with the Beanie Babies.
Lol—I’m at my best when I’m eating.
And I feel good about all of this.
SO VICARIOUS 