Only now am I really seeing the effects of peer pressure for the first time. I am popular and relatively well-known today, but I wasn’t always, and sometimes it seems far too easy to simply forget my past. And yet, I can’t, because I relate much better with other students who are left out like I once was.
Some days I can enjoy living in the moment and I treasure her little feet and fingers and squeals and excessive drool, because I know she will never be this little again. Some days I hope she never grows up.
Some days are really, really bad.
I want to set up an oral history project for my mom and her siblings. They’re a very colorful bunch, and every holiday or get-together is filled with great stories.
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Yesterday I mailed each of the five siblings a very nice looking wooden keep-sake box. Inside was the proposal package described in about seven pages of introductions and instructions, a handheld voice recorder with extra tapes, self-addressed stamped envelopes on pretty stationary for sending the filled tapes back, and two books to inspire them to get talking: Bless Me, Ultima and My Invented Country. I tried to make opening the box sensually pleasurable with pretty paper wrapped carefully around the items, and lavender oil sprinkled over it all. I fantasized throughout the assembly about each family member going to the mail and getting their box.
