When I was born,
the first thing my mama told me
was my name.
Lucy remembers lots of things about her name. When she was two, Uncle David painted it on her step stool. When she was three, she scribbled it on the floor with an orange crayon. When she was four, she ate her very own plate of L-U-C-Y pancakes, one letter at a time.
Lucy is seven now. She can reach the sink without a stool, and she doesn't write on the floor anymore. But her name still goes with her everywhere. Lucy loves her name--and she loves Mama and Dad, who chose it just for her.