The contents of a recent care package from my parents: 

6 pairs of athletic socks

4 bags of loose-leaf tea

the local freebie newspaper

July’s issue of Vogue

lip-moisturizing cotton swabs

a cute summer top from Free People

Nevermind that it’s 102 degrees in New York City right now and I don’t have a need for moisturizer, nor can I fathom boiling water for tea; I’m a sucker for my parents’ thoughtfulness, vaguely misguided or not. Their gifts are the perfect balance of planned effort (the lacy shirt is so me) and whatever else they could find around the house to fill up a box and make it look plentiful. (Once for a care package, they threw in a roll of paper towels. I assumed it was for cushioning, but I was actually out of Bounty at the time, so I took it as parental intuition.) 

Yes, I’m 33 years old and I’m still receiving care packages. I’m not ashamed. Though tough-cookie Jessica of her twenties would never admit it, thirtyish Jessica likes being cared for and is a sucker for the little gestures. My parents understand this. As random as the items are in this box, there’s nothing generic about them. No toothpaste, no bath salts, no macadamia nuts. They know I run, I’m vain and I read garbage.

The three of us are no-nonsense types, so we don’t bombard each other with obligatory phone calls every week. But on a Wednesday in the middle of June, my father, who composed his first email less than a year go and keeps most of his correspondence at under 20 words, will write me three paragraphs, purposely in pidgin, about having to endure “Sex and the City 2,” and sign it “your one an only fada.” 

My parents are also aware that I’m a 33 year old with the mindset and financial allowance of a kindergartner. For their birthdays, I’m never able to afford something they’d actually want like a boat, so instead, I make them cards, little construction-paper “odes to their wonderfulness.” Your stubbornness has made me the unrelenting dream chaser I am today. Thanks for never making me feel like this writing thing is stupid. Sometimes I’ll even draw pictures.

It took me becoming an adult for us to master the child-parent dynamic.

Or I could just be more of a sentimentalist in my old age. 

(Above: Me, 19, at Christmas, pouting because my brother, 10, got a bigger gift than I did.)