Age 3 -- The year I wore matching outfits with the whole world

This continues NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. The second instalment is here.


You read that title and you think "No, she couldn't possibly have matched the WHOLE world." I am here to prove that I could and I did.

Exhibit one: Matching pink suits with Grandma. 

She made them by hand for us. 

And now they reside forever in a floor rug she made out of fabric that never wears.

Three is a good year for a child.  They are talkative enough to be cute.  They can be well behaved enough to stay out of your way for a little while.  They still take naps.  They are pliable. You can make them wear silly outfits and they think it's awesome.  And so you do.

I don't remember much about three either.  I remember stories of the little boy I played with in the sandbox in our village.  I don't remember him except for a glimpse of a striped shirt and a yellow hat.  However, I might be confusing him with Ernie off of Sesame street except that I know Ernie did not pour sand down my back and I don't still hate Ernie with every fibre of my being.

Exhibit two: My bro and I in matching outfits inspecting a booger.

But otherwise, three is a blur.  Pictures show I had a lot of dolls and I loved to put them all to bed in straight rows of cribs and cradles.  Like an orphanage, but with plastic dolls instead of real ones.  I am sure I was a benevolent caregiver though and they got lots of plastic gruel to go with the early bedtimes.

Pictures also show that my parents hated me loved to dress me up in matching outfits.  This explains the rash that breaks out on my skin when The Guy and I accidentally wear the same colour.

Exhibit three: Matching again. 

However, proof we were THE CUTEST KIDS IN THE WORLD.

PS. My brother is going to kick my butt when he gets his computer fixed and realizes I've posted a million pictures of his childhood online. It's a good thing he lives far away.