In the mail today I received a box full of memories from my mother.  This was a box of things she had in her attic.  As I went through the box, I laughed, I had tears in my eyes, and I smiled a lot.  In this box were photos… some of me as a baby, some at my high school graduation, some at the picnic the day after my graduation from college, some at my wedding, and some miscellaneous ones spread through the years.  As I looked at one particular picture of myself taken when I was about 16, my first thought was “Wow, was I skinny then,” quickly followed by “And I wore way too much makeup.  Why did I ever think that much makeup was attractive?”

In the box were also a pile of cards and letters I’d written to mom over the years.  I laughed at one I’d given her for her birthday and in it I’d written “P.S. 39 isn’t that old.”  I found that especially funny given that’s exactly how old I turned a few weeks ago and now more than ever do I believe it’s not that old.  In one letter I’d written mom when I was 19 and living in Connecticut for a year I’d written that I had met several other nannies,but hadn’t met any BOYS yet.  (And yes, I capitalized the whole word in my letter.)  I’m sure mom was actually happy to hear that news. 

There were also a few other treasures in my box full of memories.  A photo I’d taken, developed myself, and matted for a project in a photography class in college.  And a paper that for personal reasons was dear to my heart that I’d written for a writing class in college.  I got a perfect 4.0 grade on that paper and was very proud of it. 

Thank you, mom, for sending me those memories.

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