Last month, on my 52nd Birthday, I began Project 52 — For 52 weeks, I’m going to reflect on the 52 years of my life.

Well, last week, covering my fourth year, I ran out of pictures that I had copied. Now, I’m going to my parents’ house at the end of this month, so I figure I can make some copies then, but I asked my Dad if he could tide me over.

He answered with an abundance of pictures from the years I plan to cover the next few weeks.

But thanks to my Mom’s meticulous dating of pictures, I discovered that some were from the years I’ve already covered, so I thought I’d post some of those here.

And I also remembered where I had stashed two pictures I blatantly stole from my parents’ house at some point in the past. One is the picture above, which was taken in honor of my second birthday.

Then this adorable family picture was taken when Baby Wendy was four months old. Isn’t Ricky’s bow tie so cute?

But then, lest we get smug about such cuteness, perhaps the photographer tried to get a shot with everyone looking serious? Whatever the motivation, I was having none of it! This photo cracks me up every time I look at it.

A picture that made me super happy to find was this one of me with my neighborhood friend Patty and our cat Zenie.

I was going to talk about Zenie next week — I hadn’t realized that we got her when I was still three years old.

Zenie was a stray cat, but she came with a note attached to his collar that said, “Please give me a home.” I loved her very much. I think I thought of her as my cat. I think that Ricky chose the name, coming from “Zebra,” because she was striped. Oh, and you can see our collie, Tiny Tim, peeking through the fence in back. I was a little afraid of Tiny Tim. But Zenie, I loved.

From the picture below, I’m not sure if the feeling was mutual!

There are also some nice Sibling Pictures:

Now that Wendy was born, Ricky-Becky-Sondy had become “the Big Kids.”

And this one’s just priceless. I was one cool three-year-old!

And now expect many more pictures next week when I cover being Four Years Old. I’m having way too much fun with this! A big part of the fun is remembering what it was like to be that little person. I remember some odd things — putting on those clothes, feeling the soft kitty. I had completely forgotten how much I liked wearing necklaces. (To come!)

Three weeks ago, on my 52nd birthday, I began Project 52 — for 52 weeks I’m reflecting on the 52 years of my life. (Plus a special bonus 53rd post on my 53rd birthday.)

This week I’m looking at my fourth year, when I was three years old.

This year is memorable — because I remember it!

Mind you, the memories aren’t anchored in time. A three-year-old lives in the eternal now. But I can date some of these memories because this was the year my sister Wendy was born, in October 1967.

Here’s our family with my Mom clearly expecting Wendy sometime soon and hiding behind Ricky.

Ricky would be six years old in October. He was in first grade that year. Becky was four years old and not in school yet. I was three years old.

I do remember wanting to sit in my Mom’s lap for a story and her giving me a funny smile and saying the baby was in her lap — which didn’t make any sense at all!

But Wendy’s birth was much more vivid. We went to Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Salem, as we often did. But Daddy left us there! I remember being told that Daddy would come back and get us on Saturday, in seven days. And feeling slightly bereft.

But then I remember that actually we went back in Grandma and Grandpa’s car. My memory didn’t have that as actually seven days later or on Saturday — it was much, much later that I found out that my Mom missed her kids and asked for us to come back sooner (which no one bothered to explain to the three-year-old).

Anyway, I remember being in the front seat, probably on Grandma’s lap, and looking at the funny blue stripe at the top of the windshield. I’m pretty sure I did some lying down too and looking at the gray sky behind that blue windshield.

But the traumatic part of the journey was when we were almost home. Ricky said that when Daddy asked “Who is it?” we should say “Me!”

That worried me because how would Daddy know who it was if we did that?

Then — sure enough — we knocked and Daddy asked, “Who is it?” and Ricky and Becky answered, “Me!”

And, to my dismay, Daddy answered, “Sorry, but Mommy doesn’t want any Mes in the house.” But my dismay was short-lived because he opened the door and let us in and Mommy was lying on the sofa and there was this little baby in a little bed next to her.

It’s funny what sticks in a three-year-old head.

That was also the year I learned to read. My Mom would make flash cards with words on them to get us started. She did this later with younger kids, so I know from that how it works. Start with names of people in the family, and gradually get more difficult. Anyway, I remember one time she had me go get some cards I hadn’t been able to read the last time they came out — but I remember now that I could read them no trouble at all — the word on top was “yellow.” I can still see those cards in my mind with the word “yellow” written out. And it meant “yellow” just as much to me then as the word does now. I knew that word.

Ricky also brought home beginning readers from first grade. He could already read, so he didn’t need them. But I remember reading about Dick and Jane and Baby Sally. I especially liked Baby Sally. It probably helped that the word “Sally” was a lot like “Sondy.” And she had a big brother and big sister, too.

Years later when I was assigned those readers in school, I was appalled by how boring they were. I remembered them as delightful and fun! I think now it was the excitement of being able to read them, the discovery that comes from the unfolding of the words.

So — those are all the memories that I’m sure happened when I was three. There are many more memories from when we lived in the house in Kent — but probably more of them happened when I was four and five.

For those who are counting, my Mom still had three kids at home while Ricky was in school. And that’s with one of the largest gaps in the family between Wendy and me. Whew! (Becky and I, though, at 15 months apart, are the closest together of any siblings in our family.) But I have some fond memories of being the big girl at home the next year when Becky and Ricky were in school and Wendy and I were at home. But that’s for next week!

Two weeks ago, on my 52nd birthday, I decided to start Project 52: Each week for 52 weeks, I’m going to post a reflection on one year of my life.

It’s fun for me, because though as we live life, the years get shorter (since we have only our own life to compare time with) — it will be fun to lay it all out with each year getting equal time.

Now, I’m guessing as to when these pictures were taken. The date may be on them — but I copied them years ago and don’t have the originals. When I visit my parents in a month, I hope to find some more pictures. But I will choose the ones that look about right for that year.

(This picture confirms my belief that I always loved dollies (and babies)! Though perhaps I didn’t always take the best care of them.)

This week, I’m looking at my third year of life — when I was two years old, from June 1966 to June 1967.

That was the year we moved from the house in Seattle to the house in Kent — the first place I remember living. I have no way of dating most of those memories, so I can assume most of them were from a bit later.

But I swear I have a memory of the house in Seattle. What I remember matches what has been said about it. My Dad says they moved out of that house around June 1966 — before my brother Ricky started Kindergarten in September in Kent. (Ricky was going to be 5 years old in October, and they got him in early, because he could already read.)

Anyway, in my memory we were in front of a house with lots and lots of steps. We were moving away, but I went back inside to use the potty. (If I was actually being potty trained, I’m sure such a thing would have happened as the last thing before we left!) I remember all the rooms being empty and it all being very strange to me and being hurried in and out of the house and carried out to the car.

It may not be true — but I suspect it is. I don’t remember any sadness about moving, just some bewilderment and Mommy making it all seem rather momentous. There was no fear or wondering about the future. It’s a very living-in-the-moment memory. But I pieced together down the road that I really did have a memory of “the house in Seattle with lots of stairs.”

This picture is possibly from later, but that year I was two, Becky was three, and Ricky was four, going on five.

The house in Kent was also the first address I memorized (much later) — “one-one-three-one Seattle Street in Kent.” I believe the strong emphasis on in Kent was to clear up any confusion about living on Seattle Street.

It was a two-story house with a basement as well. Becky and I shared a big room upstairs. We had matching white dressers and bookcases and desks. (And you know what? I still have one of the bookcases!) Our bedroom window looked down into the side yard.

We had a big picture window in the living room, that reportedly had a view. I don’t remember much about that. Maybe because I was too short to enjoy it? There was a yellow kitchen. In the basement there was a ping-pong table where once or twice I saw my Mom and Dad play ping-pong. (Wow. That’s an old memory. I don’t think my Mom played ping-pong any in later years.)

We had an enormous (to me) green lawn in the front, a garage in the back with an attic, and a fenced yard in the back as well. Seattle Street came up a hill and around a bend right in front of our house (which is why we had a view). There was an alley in front of our front yard and blackberry bushes across the alley. If I ever went near the blackberry bushes (in later years), I got scratched to pieces by the thorns.

And now I’m definitely getting into later memories. Next year: My sister Wendy is born! My years as the spoiled youngest child (Yeah right, Rick!) were coming to an end.

I’m 52 today!

As a Numbers Person, I think 52 is very cool — we use it a lot in probability, because it’s the number of cards in a standard deck. So I played some solitaire with my souvenir playing cards from Ireland and Britain and Germany.

But I’ve decided to start on a project. There are 52 weeks in a year, and I just finished 52 years of life.

I thought it would be fun, each week in the next year, to reflect on one year of my life.

So tonight, on my birthday, I’m going to talk about my first year.

I was born on Flag Day in Washington, D.C. My family lived in Maryland, in what is now Columbia, was then called Ellicott City. My Mom was 23 and my Dad was 25. So young! Yet they already had two kids, Ricky, who was not yet 3 years old, and Becky, who was 15 months old.

My parents met in Seattle, attending Seattle Pacific College, and only lived in Maryland a few years, long enough for Becky and me to be born. It’s kind of funny that I ended up living out here as an adult. I didn’t remember the East Coast at all from babyhood, of course.

I checked with my Dad, and they moved away from Maryland after I was a year old. So that first year was on the East Coast. I found out tonight that they did some sight-seeing when they found out they wouldn’t be staying — so I have been to places like Skyline Drive and Monticello, even though I didn’t remember.

My Dad worked at Johns Hopkins Jet Propulsion Lab, and my Mom was a stay-at-home Mom, who always did think it was a terrible thing for women to work.

She told me a story about when I was very small.

She was quite overwhelmed with 3 kids under 3, and had been asking God Why she had to have all these kids (sort of a George Bailey “It’s a Wonderful Life” moment.) The next day, I fell down the basement steps in my walker and cried for a solid hour. She held me and said, “God, I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it!”

I think she told me that story to let me know I was loved and wanted. (I’m not sure if it completely had that effect, but I appreciate the intention!)

I also want to reflect in these posts about how God had his hand on me. My parents met at a Christian college. I was born on a Sunday, the day after my Mom had spent the day at a church picnic. (I was the only one of my Mom’s kids born on my due date.) They both love the Lord and brought us to church every Sunday morning and evening, and often Wednesday nights as well. So my first grace came by the family I was born into — they introduced me to Jesus.

I don’t know how old I was in this picture, but it looks like somewhere around a year old.

I was ready for a wonderful life!