I wrote this after hearing about the book Dear Me: A Letter to My Sixteen-Year-Old Self.
Dear 8-Year-Old Me,
The Star Wars people are going to make more movies, but they’ll be called “prequels.” Just go with it. You’re going to have braces. Twice. Throw a mild tantrum at your orthodontist’s office to get them removed early. You’re never, ever going to like brownies with nuts in them.
Some girl in elementary school is going to pick on you. Your mom will convince you to thwart her evilness with a Whatchamacallit and a smile. This will be a valuable lesson about the Power of Candy. People will make fun of your hair so much it will make you cry. Later in life, you’ll discover a straightening brush and anti-frizz balm, and you’ll have the last laugh. Also, you’ll find out about this stuff called Sun-In. It will tempt you. Don’t use it.
You’re going to have an amazing education. You will study hard and it’ll be a lot of work, but you’ll graduate from college and create a career that gives you more purpose than you ever thought possible. And you’ll have a pink office. With shelves for your My Little Ponies. I know.
The world will soon be overrun with technology. These things called “computers” and “cell phones” will take over. Play outside now as much as you can. Exercise your imagination. Smash lots of rocks with your hammer, carry them around in your tacklebox, and always wear your safety goggles. Heck, just keep those orange puppies around your neck in case you need to start pounding at a moment’s notice. One day, you’ll meet a guy who’ll give you Smurf tumblers, just like the ones you drink from now. You will marry him. When you’re older, your dad will call to say he dreamt that you were a kid again. He’ll remind you that to him, a part of you will always be a spunk-filled sprite. Try to hold onto some of that youthful zing. Find new ways to have wonder. And keep bribing people with chocolate.