I recently caught the last half of a movie I used to love when I was a kid, Three Men and a Baby.

All I could focus on was the big hair, the bad, keyboard heavy soundtrack and the dated jokes that fell flat. And that damn baby cried throughout half the movie.

I saw this movie at the theater THREE TIMES! One of which on sort of a date.

It solidified in me that corny cliche and I realized yet again, that you really can’t go home again.

All the things I loved as a child that I attempt foolishly to relive, end up supremely disappointing me as an adult.

All I can do when I watch a special effects laden film from the 80’s is pick it apart, try to spot the errors or just make fun of the horrific dialogue.

When I pop in a CD I may have played a thousand times as a kid, I have to turn the volumn down and roll up my car windows to avoid embarrasment. Funny how the bulk of the 80’s music industry did not appear to appreciate live musicians.

Growing up, my parents would take me and my sister to a fairy tale themed park in Washington state called Never Never Land.

I loved this place!

We’d stroll through the forest and see little, painted houses filled and surrounded by plastic figures acting out popular fairy tales such as Peter the Pumpkin Eater and Three Little Pigs.

It was like a little ghetto theme park that seemed so cool.

However, when I visited it as an adult, I noticed how, even with all the rotting wood, graffitied enscriptions and decaying plastic pigs (however, most of the characters had been stolen), how unimpressive it all was.

My memories had become muddled, with my childhood and adult experiences of the place.

Dammit!

FYI, the park was completely demolished years ago.

BEFORE:

AFTER:

This may be a situation of the child liking the box more than the toy it came in, but trying to relive the past ended up slightly sullying my perfect little memory.

I wonder what else I did and liked as a kid just really pretty dumb?

One memory I’ve never revisited for this very reason was a Christmas tradition of our family.

In early December, we’d drive to Poulsbo, our local Norwegian village, and watch Santa and a bunch of vikings float up on a viking ship and light the yule log and see the St. Lucia bride wearing her crown of candles.

We’d eat at Henry’s restaurant and I’d spend several minutes examining this enormous quilt on my way to the restroom covered in traditional Norwegian scenes and a few random trolls sewn in the mix.

Mom would buy us a big ass chocolate donut at Sluy’s bakery as we’d feast our eyes on the cookies, Norwegian pastries (Rosette’s and Fattigman) and these tasty jalapeno cheese crackers that I’ve never seen anywhere else.

We’d then spend what seemed like hours next door at the magical Sluys Gift Shop perusing the toys, majestic Nutcrackers, elaborately hideous troll figures and listening to the music box play the Nutcracker Suite.

As wonderful a memory this is, I’m scared to try to ever do this again.

I already know that both Sluys Gift Shop and Henry’s closed long ago.

The Yule Log was probably tiny; the fire, unimpressive.

I’d probably make fun of the Viking’s cheap costumes or how fat the St. Lucia bride is.

The big ass donut would only be sort of big.

I did eventually find the Music Box Nutcracker Suite CD on eBay.

One not so pleasant memory my Norwegian Christmas tale brings up is how a lady walked by me while I enjoyed my gigantic donut and muttered under her breath “What a pig”.

My mom verbally kicked her ass.

Maybe it was a nice memory after all?