While I was home last weekend, I took some time to flip through my baby book. And by baby book, I mean a baby book that my mom made into a scrapbook of life, including everything from my first footprints and records of developmental milestones to printed out e-mails I sent her when I was in college. God I love that woman. In there I found some real gems of information, like dates of when I first slept through the night (6/26/81), analysis of my feelings on my first day of kindergarten (nervous about both being at school and wearing a dress) and favorite books from my childhood. I also discovered that I was a voracious note-writer. I wrote notes to my mom, my dad, Santa, my sister, my friends, myself, the universe. And my mom saved them all. I had virtually the same handwriting I have now and a pretty amazing vocabulary even back in 1988.
One of these notes was a follow-up to my Christmas list sent to Santa. I guess just to confirm that he got my original note, I was nothing if not thorough. I wrote it in 1989, making me 8 1/2 and my sister just barely 4. I wrote each line on a separate sheet of prettily colored paper, used some embellishments to emphasize important words, and stapled the thing together before handing it over to my mother to send to the North Pole. Which she obviously neglected to do. And aren’t we glad she didn’t?
I hope you got my list.
I was very good this year, and I was mostly nice to Allison.
Could you please put my name on the tags of any presents you are bringing her? (if there even are any)
P.S. Alley was NOT good.