Lucy

When I was born, my mom wrote my name everywhere. She wrote my name in my Mother Goose book. She wrote my name on the backs of pictures. She wrote it on the picture of me sleeping crooked in my car seat. She wrote it on the picture of me pulling off my blue cap. She wrote my name on my T-shirt so that everyone would know I was LUCY.

I was brand-new, and so was my name.

When I was one, my grandpa spread chocolate frosting on my birthday cake. He wrote my name on top of the cake with orange frosting. He squeezed the frosting out of a tube. First he squeezed out an L. He kept squeezing until my whole name was squeezed out on the cake — Lucy.

My grandma took a picture of me smooshing my orange name into the brown cake. I made that cake look like a volcano. My name was the hot lava gushing out of the volcano.

When I was two, Uncle David made a stepstool for me. He cut the wood with his electric saw. He nailed the pieces of wood together. He sanded the edges smooth.

He painted the stepstool blue, and then he painted my name on the top — LUCY.

He painted chipmunks running around my name. He painted trees so the chipmunks and my name would have some shade. When it was time to wash up, I stepped up on my stepstool and stood on my name.

When I was three, I scribbled my name everywhere. I scribbled my name on my hand with a green marker. I scribbled my name on the couch with red paint. I scribbled my name on the floor with a blue pen. I scribbled it with a brown crayon on my door. I wanted everything to belong to me. I thought that my scribbles said LUCY.

When I was four, my dad made surprise pancakes. They were alphabet pancakes. Dad flipped them onto my plate one at a time. I ate the L with maple syrup. I ate the U with jam. I ate the C with apple butter. I ate the Y all by itself. My name tasted wonderful.

When I was four, I got a baby sister named Madeline. She could not eat her big long name, so I helped.

When I was five, I read my name on my coat hook at kindergarten. I hung my jacket up right under my name. One day, I lost my cap on the playground. I looked under the slide. I looked by the swings. I could not find my cap anywhere, so I went to look for it at the lost and found. There were two red caps, just the same, but my cap had Lucy written in tiny letters on the tag. I hung my cap back up under my name.

When I was six, I stomped my name in the snow. The snow was my giant paper. The letters of my name were bigger than me. I would not let Madeline write over my name with her boots!

I wrote a letter to my Uncle David to tell him about the paper made of snow and my giant name. I told him how I would not let Madeline write over my name with her boots. I signed my name at the end of the letter — Lucy.

Madeline signed her name, too:

Now I am seven. I am writing a story about a girl who lives deep in the woods. She can talk to animals. One of her friends is a chipmunk. When it is cold outside, the chipmunk hides in the girl’s jacket. The girl’s name is written on the door of her cabin. Can you guess what her name is? LUCY.