Okay, let’s be real. We’ve all had those moments where we look back on our childhood and cringe. Maybe it was an unfortunate fashion choice (neon windbreakers, anyone?), a questionable taste in music (I’m looking at you, Vanilla Ice), or… a pet rock.
The Day Rocky Rolled In
Yes, you read that right. A pet rock. His name? Rocky, naturally. I was eight, obsessed with all things shiny and sparkly, and somehow convinced my parents that a plain, gray rock from the backyard was the coolest thing since sliced bread. To be fair, I did decorate him with googly eyes and drew him a tiny, lopsided smile.
Responsibility Rocks (Pun Intended)
Now, you might be thinking, “What kind of responsibility comes with a pet rock?” Surprisingly, quite a bit. At least, that’s what my eight-year-old self believed. I took Rocky everywhere with me. I even snuck him into school a few times (sorry, Mom!).
Every night, I diligently “fed” him imaginary rock food and “changed” his nonexistent water. I even wrote down his daily activities in a special “Rocky Journal.”