Precocious Youth

When I called my mom on mother’s day, as a good son is supposed to do, she did something that’s normally reserved for my birthdays, which is recalling a story from when I was a kid that acted way too much like an adult. I’m pretty sure I turned 40 the day I turned 4, which I guess makes me 350 years old now. I’ll tell the story as she told it to me, or as close as I can remember.

Do you remember the little white hatchback we used to have? One winter we kept getting stuck in the snow, and though we finally made it on to the street that we lived on, we got stuck a half mile from our house. Having had enough, you jumped out of the car and said “This is just too embarrassing! I’m going to walk home.”

This story was followed up by another about a ski trip to Colorado in the very same car where I, a kindergartner remember, was sent in to hotels, more likely motels, along the route to check us in because if the car was turned off it wouldn’t start again until morning. Strangely it wasn’t until our way home that someone questioned the logic of letting a 4 year old check in to a hotel for the night and sent me back outside sans room keys.

brb, calling therapist.

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