On a recent trip back west to visit the parents, my dad went digging in a remote corner of an upstairs closet and produced a bunch of laminated drawings he and Mom had saved from my glory days as a pint-sized art prodigy. 🤣
These prize-winning works are legendary in our family, but not so much for the content as the controversy. Supposedly, the panel of judges at the Morton Grove Library were so enamored with the childish scrawlings I entered in their kiddie art contest every year that they basically rubber-stamped the blue ribbon on everything bearing my name. My dominance so aggrieved some other kid’s mom that she asked them to ban me so her little Picasso would have a chance. 🤷🏼♀️
Not to worry, though; my head never gets a chance to swell much before Dad busts out some or other cringey writing project from that era, like my “children’s series” featuring anthropomorphic insects/animals. Somehow, the stories always seemed to cut off before I could come up with an acceptable ending — I apparently was fond of the “it was all a dream” plot device — but each book had a complete “about the author” bio listing all my elementary school accomplishments. 😬
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