Some of you know about an unfortunate childhood incident involving me and a box. For those who don’t, here’s the short version. I had a set of stacking plastic boxes when I was around two years old. The biggest one was red. They all curved in at the top, probably for aesthetic reasons. One day I decided to sit down in the big red box. When potty time came, I found myself unable to escape from said box due to the inward curve and sharp edges at the top. Some of you might find that mental picture amusing, but I assure you that it was not amusing in any way, either for me or for my mother. After extensive efforts by both of us, Mom was ready to pick me up, box and all, and take me down the street to the fire station for assistance. Fortunately, Dad came home just in time to avert any, um, accidents by sawing the box open. This might be my earliest memory. I remember Dad used a hacksaw. Once I was free, they decided the boxes would be better off outside our home. Here’s a picture of my misfortune:

The other day I put Brenden in a similar position only without the drama. His playroom has a big plastic tub that sometimes holds his toys. His new game is to play with the box itself, so I decided to amuse myself and you by posing him for some “box” pictures.