Or maybe it’s just that history repeats itself.
Truth be told, I’m a very, um, particular person. It’s something I’ll admit. I like little spoons when I eat my cereal, I like the volume control on an even number (that’s something I’m working on) and I’d rather just do the dishes than leave them there. And when things get dirty—when things spin and suddenly they’re not to my liking—well, honestly, I can get a little grumpy. I’m working on that, too.
What I’m trying to say here, though, is that I was born this way, “this” way being who I am. If you’ve been my
reader friend for awhile, you may know something about my unashamed love for things like flowers and books. I’m here to show you that these things have always been me.
The older I get, the more I realize that the people who love me love the me I am, minus the tantrums. The older I get, the more I realize that I love the me I am, minus the tantrums. The older I get, the more I realize that God really loves the me I am. Even the tantrums.
This isn’t to say that I don’t want to be better. Get real. I’m all, “Run faster! Reach farther!” What can I say? It’s the Gatsby in me. I’m just saying that these things are integral components of me. I’m just saying that I came across these photos and as unrecognizable as the little girl was, I totally saw the beginnings of the me on the other side of this computer. I’m just saying that I think she’d be proud of who I am. I even think she’d like the bangs.