Last night we had Mitchell's baccelaureate dinner: seven awards. He wore a bowtie and suspenders. Today Mitchell graduated. He gave his class speech which made all of us in the pew just cry, people coming up afterwards asking for copies of it, and Mitchell being accosted by every grandparent in the reception. He did real good. Somewhere there are more flattering pictures of all five us (and my dear aunt and mema who drove up for his commencement) but they are not on my phone. We will drive separately to the beach, and the thought of six glorious beach days hasn't even sunk in yet. But, true to my nature, I've left all six books I have to read til this week: medieval academic tomes. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little excited to peek into one and scribble a few notes. But I'd also by lying to say I didn't get the newest copy of Vanity Fair featuring Marilyn Monroe.
Do your families call you be their sister or children's names? For example, mema. To get to me, it's a hodgepodge of familiy names, passing generations, in-laws, and the once, twice, thrice removed. Yet I will be judged by the same standards as it's hard enough for me to keep Thing 1 and Thing 2's names straight. I do like growing older, growing more comfortable in myself and my decisions, even with my faults, inherited or not from my great host of predecessors.
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