Friday, November 1, 2013
My mother told me stories of how, as a young girl I would insist on choosing my outfits. She told me of the tantrums and screaming-sessions I'd have while lying on the floor of the supermarket. She told me of how a friend and I (both with strong personalities) would fight so much that they had to stop our 'play dates'. She told me of how bold I was, of how many questions I'd ask; of how as a baby I'd stand on my father's hand, of how I'd sit on his lap and manage to spill his cups of steaming coffee. She told me of how I'd hide when she came to fetch me from a friend's house, of how my sister, brother and I would have to leave the table because we couldn't stop laughing uncontrollably without reason. She told me of how I'd direct my siblings and cousins in the hope of creating a Christmas Show each year, of how I'd make the family all sit and watch me sing and perform, of how I'd instruct my sister and brother in the game of Teacher Teacher. She's told me many stories, and I'm glad. I love stories about the past, about my family and I. Most of all, I love the fact that I'm going to be able to share them.