Despite all my theories and efforts, I miss -- every day and every hour of the day -- having a mother who understands me.
That's why with everything I do and write, I imagine the kind of mom I'd like to be to my children later on.
The kind of mom who doesn't take everything people say too seriously, but who does take me seriously.
I find it difficult to describe what I mean, but the word “mom” says it all.
Do you know what I've come up with? In order to give me the feeling of calling my mother something that sounds like “Mom”,
I often call her “Momsy.” Sometimes I shorten it to “Moms”; an imperfect “Mom.”
I wish I could honor her by removing the “s.” It's a good thing she doesn't realize this,
since it would only make her unhappy. Well, that's enough of that.
My writing has raised me somewhat from “the depths of despair.” Yours, Anne
It's the day after Christmas, and I can't help thinking about Pim and the story he told me this time last year.
I didn't understand the meaning of his words then as well as I do now.
If only he'd bring it up again, I might be able to show him I understood what he meant!
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