I was emailed some old pictures that my parents found and yay! I was so cute. First, we have the fateful Smurf meeting . . .
Oh yeah, I can see by my face that I am about to freak out. That little half smile says to whichever parent is taking the picture, “I am putting up with this for about 2 more seconds, but I would like you to know that there is something extremely wrong. Save me now, or I will destroy everything around me in my efforts to escape.”
Next up, me getting into my mother’s makeup! According to her, I was about 3 here. I really did it up right.
At least I got the lipstick on the mouth, though I can’t say if the rest of it is mascara or eyeliner and I don’t know why I decided to make a cat nose or put it along my jawbone. And that expression? I think I’m about to be in the biggest trouble ever ever ever. According to my mother, she thought I was super cute and wanted a picture of me. I thought she was gathering evidence of my wrongdoing to justify the giant vat of punished waiting for me. Also, don’t ask about the hat. I remember the hat, but I don’t understand the hat. It’s horrible.
The next picture I’m looking for is one of me with a towel clipped to my head. Common practice, I’m told, for little girls with short hair who wish they had long hair. There are legions of girls running around looking like tiny nuns.