so i wasn’t going to share this, because i think the mister is going to murder me in my boots a little bit, but we’re knee deep in muck out there and i think we could all use some General Cheer.
[exhibit a: muck. knee-deep. i had to do it.]
but first, some background.
growing up, we didn’t have the sort of christmas tree where everything was matching and breakable and pretty. we had the other sort of tree. the one decked out in homemade ornaments and popsicle stick sleds and an overall cacophony of all things crooked and happy.
so as a big person, it only seemed right to carry on this proud tradition with my littles. and lucky for me, they’ve cheerfully supplied our tree with a legion of school-made trimmings:
[see that there felt skate on the far left? i whipped that baby up with my brownie troop, circa 1984. i haven’t stitched anything quite so meticulously before or since, but it’s heartening to know i did have one shining moment of domesticity.]
but back to embarrassing my husband. so unlike the rest of us, he is a reluctant contributor to the Display of Kidmade Glory. every year, the ornaments he fashioned in grade school mysteriously relocate to the back of the tree, or, as was the case this year, disappear altogether.
take for instance, this one:
i covertly snapped this pic the other day justincase he decided to 'lose' it, and what do you know. it plum up and walked off.
[isn't he the darlingest thing in his giant specs that it turns out he didn't even need as his eyesight was just fine? and that smile, like he's up to something, and that messy-cute hair...if i'd known him back then, the grade school me would've been crushing hard, that's all i'm sayin'.]
and now, in an effort to preserve my life or at least lengthen it past five o'clock, i shall share with you one of my elementary photo creations. which is not cute at all, and does not seem to be helped with any amount of squinting or even closing one's eyes entirely.
are you ready for it?
i do not think you are ready for it.
let's take a collective deep breath. yes, i am stalling.
alrightfine, here it is:
i am at a loss for where to even begin. we'll bypass the unfortunate fact that i seem to be going through a pudgy stage and also a cross-eyed stage all at once, and instead consider my wardrobe choice.
the right-now me would like to travel back in time and politely ask the third-grade me exactly what i was trying to achieve with the high-neck ruffled frock plus shoulder-tie jumper. it would seem that my inner-victorian was arm wrestling my devotion to laura ingalls wilder, and the person who lost was me.
and even more pressing: why was i allowed to select my own attire for picture day when clearly i was not yet up to the task? what has become of responsible parenting, i ask you?
but let us put that behind us. because i am not so cruel and unusual as to leave you with that particular hideousness burned into the back of your brain, we shall part with another mucky shot:
ah. much better.
please repay my thoughtfulness by promising to attend my funeral. [and if you show up in shoulder-tie jumpers, i shall love you forever.] adieu.