Year 2: The Mexican Year

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I spent much of 1977 as a Mexican.

Not your quiet, hard working field-hand Mexican, but your angry, tricked out tricycle, prison-shiv Mexican. Bought a sedan for the family. My first. It only seated 14, but we got by.

Moved from breast milk to chorizo.

Pooped a lot!

Jimmy Carter became president, the Toronto Blue Jays played their first game, and I threw a shit-ton of temper tantrums. I'd always stop crying when I could hear my dad pull in the driveway.

I was a real dick to my mom in 1977.

My parents started dressing me in handsome little outfits with name-brand sweaters and jackets, but never pants. Those had to be homemade due to the continued impressive nature of my beast. They couldn't buy me pants unless there was ample room for the crotch to be let out. By the way, the phrase "nature of the beast" was developed to give a nickname to the phenomenon of my two year old junk powering through any standard sized diaper.

Pele stopped playing professional soccer right around the time I stopped being Mexican. Coincidence?

Yeah, probably.

Overall I had a pretty solid Year 2, and even managed to squeeze in the write-up with thirteen minutes to spare.

It's coming back to me now. Slowly, for sure. But it's coming back.

Oh how the 9 of you readers (4 who are related, 1 who lives with me, and 4 whole strangers!) are going to really enjoy this stuff if I ever get the old magic back.