I'm not good at zippers

I fidget in my red plastic chair. The little metal bumps dig into my back and my bottom is kinda numb. I pull one corduroy leg under me and kick the other around, staring at my new red shoes with the velcro straps (I like the sound of the velcro).

 It’s only my third day at preschool and I don’t have many friends yet. I’m kinda shy.

“Craft time!” Teacher tells us it’s Safety Day and we’ll be making pictures of seat belts.

She passes out the paper and glitter and glue and crayons and scissors into the center of the long tables we gather around.

I select a bottle of glue, blue glitter, some construction paper, and a pair of purple plastic scissors and organize it all in front of me until it all looks perfect.

I chose blue because our car is blue and so it has to be blue. 

Then I draw out the seatbelt outlines with a grey crayon on the thick, white paper, making sure the square center where it buckles is colored in grey too, like metal. Then I take the glue and smear it with my fingers (ewewew) where the straps are.

Oh look, something white on my fingers. I instinctively lick it off. EWEWEW! That was glue. Ew. Ew. I smack my tongue, trying to get rid of the bitter, sticky taste. I wipe my fingers off on my pants. Gross.

I sprinkle the blue glitter everywhere the glue is. It’s finished! Almost perfect. There’s a lot of glitter and the lines are kinda wonky, but I like it. It looks just like our car.

Teacher tells me to write my name on it so it doesn’t get mixed up with the other kids’ when I go home. I’m not very good at writing, but I know how to spell my name. With a blue crayon, I spell out each letter:

A N D R E A

The R is the hardest, but it’s okay.

We take our seat belts to a big table by the door so they can dry and the teacher tells us to go get our coats for recess. Teacher says to make sure we zip up our coats because it is cold.

I squeeze between two boys to get my bright pink puffy coat off of its peg in the cubby closet. I work my arms into it and try to zip it up, but I’m not very good at zippers. I struggle to get the bottoms to line up and I just can’t make it work. But teacher said to zip up, so I keep trying.

All of a sudden, it’s dark in the cubby closet. I look up and find my way out into the classroom.

A little light comes in from the windows by the ceiling. Empty. No kids. No teacher. I’m all alone.

I go to the door and pull at the metal handle, but it’s locked.

All alone.

The light switch is too high for me to reach.

My bottom lip quivering and my eyes watering, I sit on the rough, musty, brown carpet indian style and wait for someone to come get me. I grab at my braids I brush the ends against my wet cheeks and wait, all alone in the dark.

This was a post for the RememeRED prompt: Remember kindergarten. If, after thinking about it for a while, you can't recall anything, move on to first grade. Mine your memories and write about the earliest grade you can recall. What was special? What was ordinary? What did you feel? Hear? See? Smell?

Of course I HAD to write about this memory, even though it's from preschool, which I started pretty young. I must have been 3 when this happened. But it's one of my most vivid memories. And yes, they really did lock me in the classroom and never noticed. They found me after recess. Needless to say, my parents yanked me out of this school and a few others before I ended up at Montessori School. 

Instead of writing this from what I think adults would like to read, I really tried to stay true to my memories and write how I would have explained it back then, (with slightly better grammar and vocab of course), keeping my voice young. Some stuff I fudged, but most of it is exactly how I remember.

Flashback: Montessori School

My memory is funky. So many childhood memories I've buried or are fuzzy. But others? Clear as if they were yesterday.

I went to a Montessori school from preschool through 1st grade (you're understanding why I'm so brilliant now aren't you?). And we had this huge play area/ farm area with animals at the back of the school, which was really an old house.

So I remember it was snowing (a once or twice a winter occurrence in the desert) and our teacher let us go outside to play in the snow. I headed for the swings with my friends Tawnya and Heidi. For some reason, Heidi fell out of the swing, or maybe she jumped, and got a bloody nose.

I can still remember the blood on the snow, how I felt terrified and disgusted and fascinated by it. How stark it was against the new, white powder.

I also had a torrid affair at Montessori School. Raul was in first grade and I was in kindergarten. And we were very much in love. He'd save a space for me at combined classes or lunch. We'd meet on the playground. There was this wooden tree-house type thing. You could climb the many steps and go up high to this veranda-type area. We'd go up there and lean on the railing and hold hands, overlooking the beautiful view of the playground and planning our future.

But our school only went to first grade and when Raul graduated, we broke up. Long distance relationships just never work.

Years later, in high school, I ran into Raul again. Needless to say my taste in men had changed quite a bit since kindergarten. I also went back to the school and that tree house was actually pretty low to the ground, not actually the high veranda I'd remembered.
 
Funny how that happens.

Actually, I was quite the slut at Montessori School. The first time I learned not to choose boys over friends was in first grade. This new boy, Neil, came to school and I just thought he was the cutest. He was the son of one of our teachers and he was just visiting for a week. He was in second grade too! I loved the older men back then. Plus he liked me!

I always ate lunch with my best friend Tawnya, but Neil asked me to eat lunch with him. So I ditched Tawnya for Neil.

So wrong.

Well of course I hurt Tawnya's feelings and that made me feel badly. I didn't want to hurt my friend or make her cry. So I said I was sorry and vowed never to ditch a friend for a boy again. And I haven't. Things didn't last long with Neil anyway, because he inevitably had to go back to his own school. See, ladies? Boys come and go but friendships are forever.

That is until KC came to our school. KC was also a first grader and every girl liked him. Every. One. Of. Us. We all fought over the poor guy. My mom loves to tell the story of when she came to pick me up from school one day and found three of us literally tearing the boy apart, each of us pulling on one of his limbs.

What can I say? We were a little boy crazy at the Montessori School.

We also got into a little trouble.

There was this spot behind the school that always, inexplicably, always had a puddle. Well this spot would ice over in winter and we'd all try to "ice skate" on it with our tennis shoes. Of course we always got in trouble for it, but we always kept trying. The lure was always too tempting.

Without getting into how awesome the school was (I would so put my future kids in Montessori school), we did some pretty cool things. Such as pet day. Every kid brought their own pets for the day (parents supervised) and I was so stoked to bring my dog Sammy.

My firefighter dad brought the fire engine once and the kids climbed all over it (I was very popular that week).

The school had farm animals too. Goats and chickens are what I remember most.

I got to school one day and the goat wasn't there. So I asked the teacher's aid what happened. She solemnly replied, "He passed." I was like, huh? So I asked my teacher. She told me he died. I was like oooooooooh, well I know what THAT means. Yeash.

Then there was this rooster. This mean ass rooster. So someone (I don't know who) gets the idea that if they can get this rooster out of its cage and play with it, it'll get nicer. Clearly this person knew shit about roosters.

Because everyone was scared of this mean ass rooster, my dad volunteers to tame the rooster (meaning my mom probably volunteered him). He keeps trying to get the rooster out and hold him but he keeps attacking my dad. I have a clear memory of my dad chasing this damn rooster around trying to catch him. I guess it was best when the rooster attacked, because then my dad would just grab its feet and shove him back in his cage.

I also had to call my dad to confirm this story and he remembers it the same. Neither of us remembers what happened to the rooster. We assume they just sold him. But I think one of the teachers took him home for dinner.

Funny the things you remember.

I think this was a Valentine's Day picnic. I'm the one with the turquoise, red, and white sweater with white skirt.

The Sound of Trains

Most people, normal people, sane people (read: people unlike myself) usually hate to live near train tracks. They hate the sound of the train blowing its horn at all hours, the rumble of the tracks. Now, I don't want to live in a shanty next to tracks, so close my whole house, excuse me, shanty shakes every time a train barrels by. I'm not that crazy.

But I love the sound of trains. I think it's because my little cousin lived somewhat near tracks when we were kids and after oh so many nights spent in little girl sleepovers, I not only got used to the sound, but was comforted by it. I loved being at Lindsey's. It was a happy place for me. So the sound of trains takes me right back to that comfort. I now live in a place where I can sometimes hear trains and it's something I hadn't heard in many years. But if I can't sleep or I'm stressed, hearing a train melts all that away. It's crazy.

Just now, I was feeling a little overwhelmed and exhausted. I'm mired in several projects both personal and work-related and feeling a smidge in over my head. Feeling like I'm just one person and good god what I would give for a clone of myself to follow me around and share my load and anticipate my needs. Because that's how good of an assistant I'd be. Hell, I am a kickass assistant. Combine an anal retentive need for organization with this laugh and you have assistant perfection.

Incidentally, I don't think it's a coincidence that the word "ass" is in the word assistant. Take that how you will, but I think being a bit of an ass is a necessary ingredient for a fantastic ASSistant.

Where was I? Oh, right! So I am the best at supporting others, but who the hell will anticipate my needs, handle my organization (as well as I can?)? Who will keep ME sane?

I was in the midst just now of that reel of overwhelmedness (like that word I just made up?) running on a nonstop loop through my brain and I heard a distant train blow its horn. And just like that, it was gone. I didn't feel all crazy over whel med anymore. I don't feel any better about all the things I need to do, but I just wasn't thinking about any of it. It was all gone. In the wind. Just like that. Comme ça.

Like magic. Now, I don't normally talk of the magic of childhood, though I do believe that's a very lovely and real thing. But I mostly don't feel my childhood was very magical. I had a sucky ass hard fucking childhood. But there are some things that stick out palpably from pure childhood happiness: the scent of chlorine in the morning (I spent most of my happy times at a pool), the feel of plastic (like Barbies or Legos or Thunder Cats), the smell of old books and the feel of their worn spines, the taste of vanilla, the touch of newspaper print (from reading the paper with my dad), the sensation of freshly clean sheets straight from the dryer, the feel of a dance studio floor under bare feet, the texture of a horse's muzzle, the sounds of a kitten's tiny mewl, a hundred songs from musicals I performed in or sonatas I danced to or eighties pop stars I emulated, that salty sandy layer that coats your feet at the beach, the smell of pencil shavings and a brand new eraser, or the sound of trains.