I'll never forget the snowmobile suit my mom bundled me into for winter in the second grade. Let me set the scene for you.
We moved quite a bit, since rents kept going up. And we either walked or took the CTA everywhere since I grew up in Chicago and my mom didn't drive. But at this particular time, I lived approximately two blocks from my grade school. That's Chicago city blocks, which aren't terribly long. Sure, if you're very tiny and you have tiny little legs, they might seem like it sometimes. But they aren't; not really.
Anyway, little tiny me had to cram myself, in my school uniform, into that green one-piece snowsuit. And then, at school, I also had to somehow successfully remove myself from that snowmobile suit (and boots), stow them in my locker, and get myself into my classroom on time. As far as I remember (and can tell from all the childhood documents I've seen), I did it; I just don't know how.
I mean, my mom clearly didn't want me to freeze; I get that. But maybe she overdressed me just a tiny bit for a two-block walk. I also had a knit hat, at least one scarf wrapped over my mouth and nose, and a pair of toasty warm mittens. And snow boots. It was a lot.
