My mother was in medical school when I was six.  She went to school in Big City down the road (about 70 miles) and stayed there during the week in a tiny little dark apartment that she shared with another student (they kept it dark and cold to save on utilities) and the only bits I remember about the apartment were the dark, the cold, and the roommate’s collection of Lionel Ritchie records.

Mom would come home on Wednesday nights and weekends, but otherwise called home every night to talk to Dad and I.  To help me connect with what she was doing, Mom instituted the “word of the day.”  Each night, she’d teach me a new word from her studies, and I’d write it down on a notepad, read it out loud, and learn what it meant.

I’m pretty sure I was the only six-year-old in the state learning about leukocytes and prostaglandins, but it served me well later on.

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