“Here is Shirley in her pants….”
This was in a box of stuff my mom had saved from my childhood. Look at that. Look. At. That. That, my friends, is nightmare fuel.
Shirley in her pants has got to be one of the scariest things I found in that box. (The envelope of hair from my first haircut came in a close second.)
I was a strange child. I remember gluing googly eyes to plastic crayons which used to be hair ties. (Did I mention we were poor?) I was 9 and pretending my plastic crayon people were orphans because I didn’t have larger crayon people to be their parents. My oldest little brother and I also made a game about hotdogs and a chef who was going to cook them to death and a game about made up creatures called Squeakybites (How do I put a trademark pending symbol in this document?) who lived in “eggs” made of our laundry baskets. I’m so glad we were too broke to have a video camera.
I guess the point of me telling you all this is that kids are weird. Kids are so so sooooo weird. But you have to let them have that weirdness. My parents never tried to stifle my odd tendencies and quirks. They may have actually enjoyed them from time to time. And I’ve tried to do the same for my boys.
My kids are weird and crazy and make me laugh. They have awesome imaginations and great talents.
Sorry for gushing so much but I think they’re the most stellar people I know. And maybe someday I can give them a box full of nightmare fuel like Shirley in her pants so they know how much I love discovering all their weirdness.