Start in New York City at the height of the Miracle Mets world series. See the city from your perch on your dad's shoulders. Wear a "please do not feed this child" tag pinned to your shirt. Take a detour south to Peru for a couple of years. Be known on the playground as Andy because your hair is cut so short. Sing at the top of your lungs. Jump into outstretched arms, over and over. Fly back to the US and alight in Logan, UT for the rest of growing up.
Smell lilacs. Read unquenchingly, tucked into the crevice of a nubby beige sofa. Feel safe at the feet of the mountains. Go tubing on the creek. Drink ice cold grape soda from that same creek. Go to church under the trees. Sing "When Irish Eyes are Smiling." Sleep outside in a sleeping bag. Dance without caring what you look like. Hear repeatedly that your brother is so smart, your sister is so pretty. Wonder what you are. Spend hours in trees, with branches representing different rooms in your imaginary house. Sneak in the back of your best friend's dad's truck during the night so you can both surprise him at work at the bakery early in the morning. Be thrilled to have a new baby brother. Listen to your younger cousin tell you where babies come from--or rather, how they're made. Grow a big nose, get braces. Be happy when the rest of your face catches up to your nose and the braces come off.
Reluctantly grow up--be one of the girls who doesn't eagerly await all the teen girl accoutrements. Discover you can write. Chafe at always being the responsible one, the good one...rebel a little. Debate + go to nationals. Get elected. Play the flute. Be on both sides of unrequited love. Try hard and harder.
Major in English. Ask questions. Fall in like with a series of boys--a drummer, a cellist, a violinist (or two), a pianist, a hockey player--whose mothers adore you. Learn that this is not necessarily the key to romantic success. Meet up with a bass player who's just a friend. Move to England. Take up running. See Princess Diana four times and Prince Charles once. Exchange increasingly love-filled letters and tapes with the bass player.
Move back, marry bass player + put him through law school. Move from Salt Lake City to Boston to Washington, DC, to Boston. Have three babies. Be amazed at the depth of mama love. Cut sandwiches, hold hands, answer questions. Ask questions & follow where they lead. Be cherished. Move forward. Embrace it all. Start a blog. Write this. You're here.
Note: Ever since I read the author Stephanie Kallos's bio a couple of years ago, I've wanted to do my own. This is my answer to her invitation. Now you give me directions to you.