I remember Sesame Street and learning numbers and words and feeling like furry monsters were friendly and loving and being messy was OK. I remember wanting a large plastic pony on which I could sit and pretend, and screamed when it appeared on Christmas morning, hidden under a Batik blanket. I remember squeezing in between my sleepy parents and their tray of coffee and steamed milk on Saturday mornings and re-telling dreams I had had the night prior to which they patiently listened. I remember my dad as my “fairy godmother” who drifted into my room once a week , his head and body draped in a white silky comforter, his feminized high pitched voice asking me what I wanted. I remember chicken and soy sauced-peppers and onions over rice as my favorite meal, gobbling it down so I could have seconds. I remember dancing into the kitchen begging my mom to feed me spaghetti noodles from her hands like a bird feeding worms to its babies. I remember putting paper outfits on paper dolls, watching them transform from girl with bloomers and camisole to princess, to tennis player, to Joan of Arc. I remember coloring in figures from my Women in History Coloring Book and thinking that Amelia Earhart wasn’t as pretty as I wanted her to be. I remember playing monopoly with my brother for hours on one Christmas eve, hoping that the Top Hat might speed the night along. I remember treasure hunts with obscure clues on my birthday, and discovering a vat of gifts in the laundry basket, the dryer, the bath tub, under the bed. -- Oh! The thrill of youth. The wonder, the fun, the lack of responsibility, the simplicity of a dandelion.