I once shared in a writer’s workshop that I had a magical childhood, and my colleague rolled her eyes and laughed. At me. I’m shy to admit it, because it’s unpopular to claim privilege, but it’s true. My childhood was wonder-filled and love-rich.
I grew up with a mom whose passion for all aspects of the Mom role was—and still is—infectious. She takes delight in peppering our holidays and everydays with loving, creative details.
For my 13th birthday, in 1989, she surprised me by sending letters to every single person I’d ever known with a matching piece of blank stationary, inviting them all to flood our mailbox on the week of my birthday with love notes, especially for me. We’re talking… every teacher I’d had since preschool, my pediatrician, my priest, every friend since birth and their parents, every former teammate and coach, every family member, every neighbor.
And pimply, awkward, newly 13-year-old me opened the mailbox each day after school for a week to stacks of birthday love let…
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