11 x 3 = me

I turn 33 in two days. 33. Eleven years of fun, three times. If I look at it that way, it doesn't seem as long. I say long, because I don't want to use the word "old". Because I'm hardly old.

I'm tired, but I'm not old.

My first eleven years are pretty easy to recall; it started at birth and ended the summer before 6th grade. And while I don't remember much about birth, or being a toddler, I do remember a whole lot about 5th Grade. And 4th, 3rd, 2nd, and Preschool. Kindergarten and 1st grade are a blur.

Why is that, I wonder? Is it because Preschool was so traumatic that it took me two years to get over it and actually start enjoying school? Must be.

I can remember the first day of Preschool, and nothing more. Well, let me rephrase that; I remember throwing a tantrum and crying, and crying, and crying, on the first day of Preschool. I didn't want to be there. What 4 year old wanted to leave their mothers side for a strange world full of crayolas and glue, swings they couldn't use, and boys pulling their hair. Not I.

I didn't want to play. I didn't want to swing. I didn't want to color. I didn't want to look at that horrifically reassuring teacher. I remember her hair, long and brown, in a braid. And the dress she wore, long and pink, much like something I'd seen on Little House on the Prairie. Wait, my preschool teacher looked just like little Laura Ingalls! Oye.

Now jump ahead to 2nd grade. I had two teachers, consecutively. One would read or teach, while the other graded papers. And vice versa. One was tall, one short. One blonde, one brunette. One spunky, one "bookish". What does that mean, bookish?

I remember my lunchbox. I remember the way my lunchbox smelled. Hopscotch and jumping rope. Skinned knees and callused palms. How come I can't hang from the bars now? I had so much practice after all. My entire 2nd grade year was spent swaying back and forth, to and fro on those monkey bars. They weren't bars, they were rings. Monkey rings?

I met Charlotte that year. And Wilbur, and Templeton and all the others there on the farm.

With 3rd grade came multiplication. And flash cards. And the first story I wrote. It was about a unicorn. What eight year old girl didn't write about unicorns? I think it was about ten pages long. But it was a great story. I think. It had to be. It was about a unicorn!

4th grade was bad. I had the chicken pox. A schoolmate’s mother was killed in a car accident. We had a major earthquake. I made friends with another schoolmate whose young brother had Leukemia and playing at her house was always so depressing. I remember the feeling in the air, and her mother who was always so nice. I wonder...I suppose I'll never know.

I built a Mission! I was amazed when I found out that this is a requirement of all fourth graders. Had no clue. The San Gabriel Mission. That was my Mission. My mission, to build a Mission that I knew absolutely nothing about.

5th grade started off bad. Let me introduce you to Emily. Emily was a total and utter cow. Not cow as in obese, but cow as in I can't call her what I really want to call her here. Or can I? Long story short, she made fun of me for stepping on my own Trapper Keeper. I'd place it on the floor under my desk, and step on it. So what. It was mine. There was no where else to put it, and my feet also needed somewhere to rest, so wallah. Emily had a huge problem with this, and made sure the class was aware that I stepped on my Trapper Keeper, that I was a freak. Emily was the freak. She looked exactly like little Nancy Oleson from LHOP. Really. Blonde hair, blue eyes, pink dress, horrible little attitude.

Luckily we moved to a different school district and I only had to endure little Nancy Oleson for one week.

The rest of 5th grade was spent playing handball, trading my milk money for ice cream sandwiches on the sly, witnessing my schoolmates make out in the halls. What gets me is they were my age, and I wasn't doing that. I didn't want to do that. What was wrong with them? This was also the time that I stopped watching Little House on the Prairie.

Summer came quickly and with it came the end of my 10th year of life. If I'd known what I was in store for, I may have enjoyed it a little more.