My parents decided that my projectile vomiting and incessant crying weren’t enough to deter them from increasing the family size, and in 1984 I found myself in possession of a brother — meeting him for the first time is one of my earliest memories — and in 1987 a sister (“she poops in the bathtub,” I noted in my diary — even at age six a chronicler of historical events). Here we are posing quasi-photogenically in our new flannel pyjamas.

As you can see, we grew up in a house in which there were never enough bookcases. Over twenty years later I’m proud to say that Hanna and I have pretty much the same problem on at least a quarterly if not monthly basis! Hanna just turned to me last night and said, “You realize one more trip to the $1 carts and we won’t have anywhere to store our board games.” I can think of many worse situations to be in.