I was a really cute kid. And then I turned 8. I do not know what happened, but suddenly I looked like I had been beaten with the awkward stick. I went from really cute with long hair to this:
What is with the constant need for ruffles?
Also, am I on a wagon train to Oregon? That is the only way to explain the gingham.
When I was 8, I was in Grade 3 with Mrs. B. She was a great British lady with an awesome accent and a no-nonsense way about her. I loved Grade 3. Here are the things I remember: We were taught to make bread one day (Mom taught us). One day we did cross stitch projects. (Mom taught us).* We did a lot of plays for show-and-tell.
Lyn, me, Aaron, Candy and Krista
Hey, Lyn. It was my birthday. You didn't need to be in the picture too.
Thanks for stealing my thunder. Turd.
I had three best friends when I was 8. Aaron was the teeny little boy who had announced to the whole (okay, all of Grade 2) that I was huge. Candy was next. She was the smartest girl in school. Then, there was Krista. She was the nicest girl ever and lived down the street.
I started playing the piano that year. Mom started to teach me, but we soon realized that she hated me and I hated her when she did that. So, I went to lessons with Mrs. Guggenheim down the street and Mom loved me again and I loved her. Unfortunately, I had no rhythm and sausage fingers (thanks Dad) so piano wasn't much my thing.
I can still play "Everything I do, I do for you" by Bryan Adams and "Right Here Waiting For You" by Richard Marx. Oh, and "Fur Elise" but that is all.
Otherwise, being 8 was about riding bikes and buying an entire dollar of one cent gum. And being awkward. But that was more about being 8 through 33.
*Seriously Mom, didn't they have Grade 3 when you were in school? You had to hog mine?