As You Grow: A Modern Memory Book for Baby - Hardcover

Korie Herold is an artist who explores watercolor, hand-lettering, design, and visual interest. She lives in Kingwood, TX with her husband, Joel, and her two boys, Xander and Jonah. She loves brunch, fresh flowers, and connecting with others. She enjoys making her house a home, and thinks the home is such an important place to nourish. She is the gal behind The Weekend Type, which began as a calligraphy business, and has since expanded to include more art mediums, exploration, and creating for the sake of the process. Her skillset comes from a blend of studies at Abilene Christian University, going to workshops from skilled artists she admires, as well as simple trial and error in her own studio. She will forever be a student of the arts, and that alone keeps her curiosity for trying new things piqued! Connect with her and learn more at www.theweekendtype.com

I grew up in a family of modest means; my brother, sister, and I learned that nothing was to be wasted, particularly food. Even the hungriest dog would be disappointed looking for food scraps in our garbage. For us, “leftovers” was the name of a meal, no different from a bologna sandwich or a meatloaf (and we all fervently hoped the “meat” in the loaf was beef). We accepted that our low-priced chopped meat contained 35 percent filler―ground bones, cartilage, knuckles generously seasoned with aged offal. It was the 65 percent labeled “meat” we feared.
I remember that by my early teenage years, the quality of our chopped meat improved, perhaps because my father received a salary increase. Although the “meat” portion was as mysterious as ever, and the percentage of filler was the same, it was now ground up more finely. After that, we chewed our meat with greater confidence, knowing that those more-than-occasional, pebble-sized, tooth-chipping, bone fragments were no longer lurking.
We had difficulty containing our excitement surrounding the semi-annual trip to a restaurant. We never knew precisely when this momentous occasion would occur, but my brother and I could deduce that it was a couple of weeks away when our meal portions at home were reduced by half. And when the half-portions were replaced by gruel, we knew it was just a matter of days.
Not wishing to waste his hard-earned money, my dad made sure we were sufficiently hungry so as to fully appreciate our dining-out experience. Because my mom and sister never finished their restaurant meals, and my father had a no-leftovers policy, my dad, brother, and I knew we would have to clean their plates as well. For my father, a doggy bag was not an option. As a matter of honor, we had to eat everything we ordered. He would no sooner skip out of the restaurant in a tutu with a tulip in his ear than he would walk out of there with a doggy bag. “And besides,” my dad would say, putting a finer point on it, “We don’t own a dog.”
Finally, the day arrived. My brother and I were assisted by my mom and younger sister, weakened as we were by the previous period of undernourishment and unable to walk unaided. As we arrived at the restaurant, they helped us to the table, propping us up in our chairs, hoping we wouldn’t embarrass them by tipping over. At this point, we followed to the letter, the restaurant routine set by our dad years before. Before any conversation commenced, the first order of business was to consume the entire bread basket. This was perfectly okay for my brother and me, given that we lacked a sufficient amount of stored glycogen to power the mouth and throat muscles required for speech.
Partway through appetizers, though, our ravenous appetites were unleashed. Our pallor was erased, and we gazed covetously at the plates of my mom and sister. Dad ordered a third basket of bread and another family-sized dish of vegetables. Appetizers finished, we were giddy with anticipation as we watched the generous main courses being served to tables around ours. At last, our meals arrived, and we were not disappointed. Huge chunks of fish or meat were accompanied by GMO-sized baked potatoes hidden beneath an improbable amount of butter and sour cream. With a predatory eye on my sister’s plate, I told her that she couldn’t finish her meal in ten sittings much less one. Dad ordered a fourth basket of bread. We dug in.
About three-quarters through my meal, common sense and a pronounced ache in my stomach told me I’d had enough, but not willing to disappoint my dad, I dared not slow down. With the knowledge that I would also have to eat whatever my sister left, I stopped taunting her and instead began to encourage her to eat more. After a few more agonizing bites of my own, I resorted to begging. I offered to carry her book bag to school every day for two weeks.
Feeling like Joey Chestnut at hotdog number sixty, I finished what was left on my plate, my sister’s plate, and the remaining rolls in the fourth bread basket. The ensuing state of gluttonous lassitude was not going to be eased by loosening a belt or unbuttoning a button or two. Involuntarily, conversation stopped, movement ceased, and even breathing abated as our brains shut down all bodily functions not directly related to the digestive challenge at hand. When my sister expressed a possible interest in ordering dessert, which she was unlikely to finish, I had just enough energy to whisper to her that such a decision would put her collection of stuffed animals in grave danger. She passed on dessert.
As we struggled to lift our distended bodies from the table, rising unsteadily, toppling our chairs as we stood, my brother and I once again leaned on my mother and sister for help getting to the car, which now seemed much farther away than I had remembered.