Speaking of paper dolls, I got a very cool birthday present from my mom this year. She had framed a life-size paper doll I made of myself when I was four.
She’d saved it all this time.

It wasn’t a school project, but I was at a loose end at home, and there was paper, pencil, scisscors, and stapler handy.

I’d been pretty ambitious; I made me complete with head and hair, arms, legs, body. I had even traced my hands and feet, and wrote ‘left’ and ‘right’ appropriately on each one. On the torso, I’d labelled it “This is me Uzbek Celia”

“Thigisme,” said Joe. The ‘s’ of my childhood handwriting looked like a ‘g’

Two years ago, my dad forgot about sending me a birthday card until it was too late (airmail from Thailand takes at least a week). So he sketched a Snoopy and a Woodstock in a little parade waving a banner that said “Happy Birthday,” and faxed it to me.
“That’s so cool,” my cousin commented wistfully. (He works in the same office and saw the fax) “My dad would never do that.” (Well, my uncle has four kids. . .)

Snoopy and Woodstock are hanging out Thigisme on the wall. My parents can be exasperating, separately so; but overall, everyone should be so lucky as to have parents like mine.


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