Kindergarten Crimes
She told me to do it.
I honestly can’t even make out her face, but I guess I liked her enough; we were amateur partners in crime. I think the walls were pink subway tiles, the color of Pepto-Bismol. I know we were in the restroom at recess or lunch. The restroom was just around the corner from my kindergarten class; I remember the door and the stalls and where the sink was in the placement of the room. I don’t remember getting in trouble. Can't remember the twisted face of my probably irate teacher, but I do remember she had brown hair, the color of paper bags, and that it hung so long she could sit on it. Her front teeth stuck way out from her upper lip. She had a gazillion freckles all over her face and arms, and she was pleasingly plump. Her name was Miss Pittman.
I remember the two of us sitting outside at a pole in front of our class, staring out at an empty schoolyard, while the rest of the kids got to be in on the class party. What the special occasion was, I have no idea. Important information at five is, I’m not in there eating cake with everybody else. I don’t even remember really feeling remorse for what happened nor feeling regret for my absence from the party. I probably hoped they just wouldn’t tell my mommy; I could survive anything but that.
I don’t even remember throwing the first fist-full of wet paper towels at the bathroom mirror. In fact, I don’t remember ever throwing anything at the mirror, but I guess I must have; that’s why I was being punished. All I know is, if someone told me this was a fun thing to do, I believed them. If they asked me to join them, I did. In fact, my little friend probably told me that we were helping the janitor by cleaning the mirrors for him. I loved helping. I don’t ever remember intending to go against the rules in school. Ever.
I think the mess was minimally frightful. As I recall, we had to help pick it up; that part of the punishment fit the crime, anyway. It couldn’t have been that big of a job; it was water-logged paper towels thrown clumsily at the mirror by two five-year-olds, one of which probably expressed some reticence since she had little idea what she was doing.
It just shows you how vulnerable we are as children. Our minds are clean little chalkboards just waiting to be written on. It makes me realize I probably expect way too much from my not-even-four-year-old. I expect her to always make good decisions, to be aware when she’s not, to know better, know right from wrong. If I’ve learned from my own childhood experiences, I should know better.
I honestly can’t even make out her face, but I guess I liked her enough; we were amateur partners in crime. I think the walls were pink subway tiles, the color of Pepto-Bismol. I know we were in the restroom at recess or lunch. The restroom was just around the corner from my kindergarten class; I remember the door and the stalls and where the sink was in the placement of the room. I don’t remember getting in trouble. Can't remember the twisted face of my probably irate teacher, but I do remember she had brown hair, the color of paper bags, and that it hung so long she could sit on it. Her front teeth stuck way out from her upper lip. She had a gazillion freckles all over her face and arms, and she was pleasingly plump. Her name was Miss Pittman.
I remember the two of us sitting outside at a pole in front of our class, staring out at an empty schoolyard, while the rest of the kids got to be in on the class party. What the special occasion was, I have no idea. Important information at five is, I’m not in there eating cake with everybody else. I don’t even remember really feeling remorse for what happened nor feeling regret for my absence from the party. I probably hoped they just wouldn’t tell my mommy; I could survive anything but that.
I don’t even remember throwing the first fist-full of wet paper towels at the bathroom mirror. In fact, I don’t remember ever throwing anything at the mirror, but I guess I must have; that’s why I was being punished. All I know is, if someone told me this was a fun thing to do, I believed them. If they asked me to join them, I did. In fact, my little friend probably told me that we were helping the janitor by cleaning the mirrors for him. I loved helping. I don’t ever remember intending to go against the rules in school. Ever.
I think the mess was minimally frightful. As I recall, we had to help pick it up; that part of the punishment fit the crime, anyway. It couldn’t have been that big of a job; it was water-logged paper towels thrown clumsily at the mirror by two five-year-olds, one of which probably expressed some reticence since she had little idea what she was doing.
It just shows you how vulnerable we are as children. Our minds are clean little chalkboards just waiting to be written on. It makes me realize I probably expect way too much from my not-even-four-year-old. I expect her to always make good decisions, to be aware when she’s not, to know better, know right from wrong. If I’ve learned from my own childhood experiences, I should know better.
Comments
I love your last paragraph.
You have such wisdom as a mama... I can learn a lot from you.
:)
cj
love you, Sar,
mama