I’d write it in varying formats – print, cursive, block letters, fancy, messy and in any combination, only to scribble it out so hard that my pen rapidly tore holes in the lined notebook paper. Even though the names were scribbled beyond any hope of recognition, it couldn’t be risked, and that same lined paper found its way into the trash can next to my desk. Shredded and torn to little pieces.
It dawned on my mom is a girl too. I know, revolutionary. She had elementary school crushes and dreamed of her first kiss with prince charming, just like I did. She played sports in high school and giggled like an idiot with her friends because that’s what girls do, just like I did. She went to college, probably experienced heart break, got her first job, just like I did.