3.5 years old, finally remembering stuff, almost time for school, right? Well, yes, sort of. I would start my journey into school at 4 years old, a preschool right across Damen on Cullerton… literally 2 minutes from the house. To say it didn’t go well would be an understatement. You see, my mother stopped working when I was born, and obviously, continued to stay home with me and my siblings as they came along. Having a parent at home during this time is priceless IMO. Of course, everybody doesn’t get to have that same luxury. Every family can’t afford to make it on a single income. As my dad continued to work the 9-5, my mom was home taking care of the rugrats. To say I was a mama’s boy would probably be accurate; aren’t all boys mama’s boys? Yes, my mom did everything for us; being with her throughout the days was all I knew at that age, and when she tried to drop me off, away from her for the day, I wasn’t too happy; I guess this was my first real exposure to change, and I did not like it.
I guess I was OK for a little bit. If I can remember correctly, this was a half-day preschool; I only needed to make it on my own for about 4 hours. It couldn’t have been more than halfway through the half-day, when I melted down; I missed my mom and wanted to go home. I laid down by the door to the “school”, which was actually held in a gym, a gym I would later play basketball in. Yes, I laid down by this locked door to the gym, and started kicking the door, crying my ass off; I still have remnants of that memory in my head. They must have called my mom, who came and got me. That was the end of my first day in preschool; that would also be my last day of preschool. Since this was so traumatic for this 4 year old, my parents decided to wait to give it another try next year, in kindergarten, when I HAD to go school. That would be fun.
In fact, the first day of school in kindergarten, 1st grade, 2nd grade, and finally 3rd grade, was always filled with tears. It’s not that I hated school. It’s that I didn’t want to leave home. Being at home all day with my mom and siblings was the preferred option, but… as of 5 years old, was no longer my reality during the school year. Still, I cried… finally in 4th grade, I was OK. The last time I remember crying in school was 5th grade, when I couldn’t do this stupid ass art project… a spiderweb with yarn and toothpicks; I was never much the artist. I remember telling my friends I had something in my eye, when I was in the bathroom crying; they knew better.
The cool thing about school, specifically kindergarten, is that was the place where I met my first friends; I still talk with 2 of them to this day. I talked with one of those two today, because it’s his birthday. Having friends that I’ve known since I was 5 years old is pretty cool; if anybody knows the real me, besides my family, it’s them.
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