As we prepared to leave for a visit to New York City, I stepped outside the house to find a banana peel and a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich sitting on the front steps.
I attribute this lunacy to the presence of a twelve-year-old boy in my home, but I have to wonder:
Was I really doing such ridiculous things when I was his age?
It’s hard to imagine so, but perhaps memory is both selective and convenient.
