Mommy's Piggy Tales: Week 5: Super Girl!

I couldn't believe it! I got the 3rd grade teacher I'd hoped for-- the wonderful Mrs. Small!!!! Who, at about six feet tall, wasn't. But EVERYBODY LOVED HER!!!!!! She was smart and sweet and sassy and funny and the world's biggest cheerleader. Anyone who did well in class, academically or otherwise, got a hearty "That's my Super Girl!" or "That's my Super Boy!" from her. We all lived for those moments, me, maybe more than most. I didn't get too many "atta girls" from my classmates. But despite my increasing use of temper tantrums, she was understanding and didn't wish "for the bird of paradise to swoop over my lunch" either. She reserved that curse for the wiseacres in class. You know, the kind of boys who'd be the first to torment me. As I said, Mrs. Small was sassy: she'd sing the "Bird of Paradise" song to us, or other silly things. She taught us "Billy Boy" for math class & had us try to figure out the age of his wife; in the end, she would conclude that really Billy Boy's wife was "an old thing and nobody wants her!"

Mrs. Small was all about academics, and encouraged us to excel. She noticed I was in the lowest reading level, even though I was also in FOCUS, so she had me and one other girl (either Traci or Melissa) spend two weeks scanning through the reading levels and taking the tests to be able to study with the highest reading level class. We went from Level 9 to Level 12 in a hurry. Could have gone higher, but why be ahead of everyone else. I learned some very interesting true stories that year, like how the Towers of Watts came to be and the heroism of the crew of Apollo 13. I think we even read a bit of Jack London's "To Build a Fire." The Houghton-Mifflin Series they used did not dumb-down the material at all, and provided some good social/history lessons.

I needed those social lessons. I had started crying and throwing temper-tantrums when things didn't go my way. They didn't go my way as often as I'd like. I had this idea that I was the smartest girl in 3rd grade, since I always made As & 100s on my work (despite being a procrastinator & having a messy desk.) But one day, after we took one sort of achievement test or another, I learned that Karen W. scored higher than me. Horrors!!!! How did that happen!!!! She's not smart!!!!!! I threw the biggest temper tantrum yet; Mrs. Small had to take me back to the classroom and put me at my desk (which was always separate from everyone else's desks. I liked that, but I think it was to keep me from talking too much to other kids.) I was still, literally, screaming mad, so mad I stomped my feet & kicked my desk & knocked a pencil out. That pencil was just laying on the floor, so I stomped that, too. AND BROKE IT! Then I really, truly sobbed in sorrow. It was my favorite pencil-- one of those that were made with a redwood sawdust barrel so they had just enough bend to flick when you played that maze game with pencils. My mom never bought those pencils, and someone gave that one to me. Now it was broken. Mrs. Small tried to make me feel better by taping it up, but it would never be able to do flick mazes again. I learned a hard lesson to NEVER, EVER hurt or break anything in anger. You can't take it back & it will never be the same.

Melissa had a better idea about how to deal with unfairness. She & I were still the youngest people in our FOCUS class, and the older kids did not respect us. We played two simulation games that year, and our roles were the worst ones like cabin-boy or pig tender. When we thought they were being too mean, we'd have our own sit-down-strikes under the table, and all play would stop until we were negotiated with. We learned that from learning about MLK & Ghandi in our reading lessons, too.

Cabin boy? Pig tender? OK, the big deal that year was we were leading up to 1976, The Bicentennial of the United States of America. It was Bicentennial everything! Coins, bonds, car sale, fashions, you name it, it was sporting the Red, White & Blue. (Even the Olympics & Presidential elections took a backseat to this sea-to-shining-sea party.) Holly Hobby dolls were very popular. For my Junior Girls Scout troop, we had special badges to earn all about colonial life. We even had a "Bicentennial Chorus" made up of two girls from every troop in the Association. I was in it (after one of the other girl's mother declined the honor.) My mom made me a mob cap & apron, and a green gingham dress. I loved learning the medley of folk & patriotic songs; maybe I didn't love standing up in front of other people & singing. I'd throw my apron up over my face a lot. Well, why not? Isn't that what women did back then when they were nervous? Anyway, we were playing the "simulation games" in FOCUS so that we could see how difficult it was to cross the sea and settle in the colonies, and then how harrowing it was to cross the plains in a wagon to move west. It wasn't all Mayflowers and Little Houses. Each person had a role, and our abilities to complete a task, or random circumstances, were determined by a roll of the dice or a flip of the coin. Say, it's a hard winter-- and six meant there was enough food stored and every one in the colony lived, or a one meant what the rats didn't eat got moldy & half the colonists died. It taught us about history, perseverance and math. It also taught me that Johnny Cakes are very inedible, no matter how much syrup you put on them (that was my Independent Project for the year.)

Earning badges for Girl Scouts kept me busy after school. My mom was troop leader again, so she had the opportunity to test out plans on me first and sign off on my badge work. My mom, however, left a lot to be desired as a troop leader. Again there was the no-favoritism/extra-work component for me (which really came home to roost with the great cake Bake Off disaster; cake goeth before a fall, too.) The worst were our camp-outs. She took us on a trial camp-out in our backyard, which was fun since we could go in my house to use the bathroom, and we could use the stove to finish cooking our under-cooked campfire meals-- but then the neighborhood boys discovered we were there & spent half the night trying to scare us (& succeeding to my mom's irritation.) Then she took us to Camp Martha Johnson for a weekend, but waited too late to make the site reservations. We got Frontier Camp, the "primitive" site. No cabins & latrines for us greenhorns; we got spider-&-cricket infested tents on platforms & outhouses. Just one sink with running water at the shelter area. All of us girls vowed we'd never use the outhouses, we'd just cross the Rainbow Bridge & use the flushing toilets at another site. Until the torrential RAIN that night that flooded the river & left us surrounded by water. Then we had no choice. Since I actually have a good sense of direction, I spent the night leading my fellow scouts to the outhouses (buddy system, you know.) Glad my mom insisted that I pack my raincoat & galoshes. That weekend may have been what convinced my mom to never lead a troop again.

Both of my best friends were in Mrs. Small's class and in my girl scout troop-- Melissa R., who was also in FOCUS with me, and Annie G. who was also in CCD with me. Two girls who more unlike than any. Melissa was sweet & silly & loved her big sister & little sister (most of the time;) she had many friends and lots of sleepovers and adored Little House on the Prairie (since the main actress was named Melissa, too.) Annie was wild & goofy & wanted to trade in her older and younger siblings; she was often left alone at home while her mom worked as a nurse (her big sister was supposed to be watching them) and told off-color jokes. But for some reason, they both liked me and were my friends. I was very jealous and had a hard time sharing them with other friends. Sometimes, I'd miss out on fun things with Melissa because I resented her having Traci or Melanie over. Sometimes, I'd let Annie boss me around because she'd say she wouldn't stay & play if I didn't. All around, I loved my friends, but I just didn't think that friends could be very fair.

Spring came and the Bicentennial was in full swing. We had a school fair and I wore my gingham dress. We tried to churn butter in a mayonnaise jars, but we just didn't have the pioneer stamina to keep shaking & shaking, so all we got was sour, frothy milk. For spring Field Day, the 3rd graders performed a Maypole Dance, which was extra special that year, since it was sort of a colonial thing to do; I got to wear a blue skirt (my favorite color-- might have thrown a fit to get it) and I was matched up with a boy with a blue sash, who didn't seem to mind being matched up with me. I really like doing the dance & the weaving, and I wish I could have kept my skirt & streamer, but they were put back away for next year's 3rd graders. My school year wrapped up with Mrs. Roberson's spring dance recital; she had a real studio on Watson Blvd. now, but we still performed at the Officers' Club on base. She had a "Westward Ho!" theme and we wore patchwork with kerchiefs; our ballet number was "Night Herding" and our tumbling routine was to "Hand Me Down that Can o' Beans." I did not take tap that year, because my mom said I didn't practice enough.

Summer had its ups and downs. I still didn't pass Advanced Beginners swim lessons. And Melissa's dad got stationed in Dayton, Ohio, so she had to move away. We promised we'd write to each other every day-- well, maybe every week. But I wasn't bored without her. My parents let me go to summer camp at Camp Martha Johnson; scary to be without my family and in among new people, but very much fun with singing & laughing and crafts and NOT being in the primitive site (I got the cabin group near the pool.) I earned several new badges (including my swimming one - ha! Dry Lake Pool!), and was just getting into the swing of things when my week was over. I knew I would be looking forward to going back next year.

Finally, I learned how to ride a bike. I was all of eight years old, almost nine, and couldn't ride a bike. Sure, I felt left behind when Sally or Annie or Melissa wanted to go ride, but what could I do? Bikes were dangerous! One afternoon, I pointed out a Burger King commercial to my dad--the one where the kid learns how to ride a bike and they celebrate by keeping biking on down to BK for fries. I wanted fries. My dad wanted me to learn how to ride that blue bike. He took me out to the backyard where the yard had a slight slope. He'd learned back in Birmingham by coasting down hills, so he figured I could do the same. Every time he let go, I'd wobble a bit and jump off. After a million times of doing that, he threatened that if I did that one more time, he'd tie my feet to the pedals. I jumped. He tied.

I was terrified! He wheeled me (tied down with cotton kitchen twine) back to the top of the hill, gave me a running push, and let go. I had no choice but to peddle like crazy to keep my balance. I kept peddling & peddling, down the hill, through the gate, across the driveway, and bump, right into the lone tree in the front yard. But I didn't fall down! My mom had seen me from the kitchen window. I was so excited I jumped off my bike to tell her. Then we went to back to the top of the hill and I did it all over again, except I missed the tree in the front yard, rode across our yard, the Prices' yard and into the vacant lot, where I bumped into the lone tree in there.

I jumped off my bike. Did you notice that? Nah, I didn't either, not for many years. I was never in danger of falling. My dad was nearby, and my shoes were only lightly looped over by a bow. I could have jumped off. I just need to have some confidence forced on me.

I wouldn't get off that bike for years.

Why Put Off Until Tomorrow, What You Can Put Off for Another Week?

I am, disappointed in myself. I'm not surprised. But I am disappointed.

I "missed" a week with "Mommy's Piggy Tales." Of course it's my own fault. I could have been typing instead of playing computer games. But I just couldn't get motivated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I do have excuses.

I had PMS-- that alone can put one out of her ever-lovin' mind.

I had many visits to attend to: family get-together fish-fry, son's God family about to fly out to new diplomatic assignment, MIL & SIL coming over on a rare visit, other kids' birthday parties-- that can wear a body out.

I am hoping that my master bath will be finished (after a year!!!!) being painted, and we can use it again, which means we will be able to concentrate on clearing out the room that is the computer room/office so our son can move in there so our daughter can move in his room so our computer/office can move into the corner of our bedroom where the baby currently is, which means that we are having to do a lot of culling/sorting/storing-- that sentence made my brain hurt, let alone thinking of all the logistics.

I've been finishing other projects that I have long put off since my house has been piled miles-high in disarray, and is now regaining some order (see above)-- that has made me feel accomplished in and of itself, exclusive of other endeavors.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

These are all excuses, and I sometimes feel I have no excuse. I could have written. When I did sit down today to write, the words just flowed (in between juvenile interruptions.) That's been a constant problem of mine. I can do B+ work at a last minute dash, and A+ work if I sit down & put some advance effort into it. I should not offer excuses.

I feel better with excuses.

Maybe the main problem has been being self-conscious about what & how to write. My Week 3 offering was long(ish) and had a very negative vibe. I know what my life story is like, and I know that I get hurt a lot over my young years-- nothing "damaging," but "character building" is painful in its own time, nonetheless. I have been afraid of being too long-winded and a downer, thus putting off anyone who wants to read my blog.

I've talked over with myself, framed things out in my mind, and prayed over it. I considered maybe writing a long blog, but then linking up a just a "happy" excerpt. In the end, God reminded me that I should write for my heart, not for my "audience." This blog is for me, for my needs, and sometimes, my needs also meet another's, but not through my own choosing, but by living the life I pray that God has led me to live. That's the way His plan works; not by my design, but His, wonderfully so & inexplicable.

So there on Wednesday is a long Blog post "catching" up from the previous week. Missed linking up, sort of bummed that I won't be eligible for a "Perfect Attendance Award." I, think, tho, that there are others participating for whom one of the prizes will mean so much more to them than it would to me. There I feel better.

But if, say, one of the prizes turns out to be "waking up 60 pounds lighter" or "house magically rearranged without any physical effort," you'll remember that I did get my "Week 4" entry in before Week 4 was over, OK?

Mommy's Piggy Tales: Week 4: Going to a New Place

Moving was so much fun! When we left the house in Brunswick, all of the rooms were empty & I could run from room to room, with even the smallest whisper seeming to echo around the walls. The new house in Warner Robins did the same thing, but the rooms were quickly filled with boxes. The new house was different, too, which made it fun. My new room had shelves in the closet, as did my brother's, and we both had fancy light-switch plates (mine had angels.) His room was smaller than mine, and shaped funny with one wall having a nook that just held his bed. This was also where his window was, and it looked over a small patio on the side of the house. The house had two brick-lattice patios, one on the side and one connecting the driveway to the front door, and both could be accessed from the huge living room. It was taller than it was wide, owing to its "cathedral" ceiling; there was no overhead light fixture, but there were windows following the roofline opposite of the fireplace. (Yea! Fireplace! Now Santa didn't have to use his key!) The kitchen was tiny (a galley kitchen), the den generous. The bathrooms were two rooms each, a sink part AND a tub/toilet part. The best part was the screened-in porch to play on, the concrete patio with a tree growing in the middle of it, a back yard that went forever & the wild woods in the back. Kid heaven!

The kids next door came over to check us out. The two older boys couldn't care less about a seven-year-old girl & her little brother, but Sal, wearing no shirt, climbed down out of a tree to talk. Sal would be in Second Grade, too, and offered to teach me how to climb trees & how to find the paths through the woods. Then Sal had to go in & wash up. Well, I should say, "Sally," because that's the name her mother called out the door. Fooled again! Yet, I didn't feel too bad. Sally was a self-professed tom-boy, running after her brothers and admiring the TV wagon-master "Dirty Sally." Getting her into a dress, like her little sisters, was a feat. I think I saw her in a dress just once. And she did know all the fun places out in the woods, even though I was too chicken to climb up into any of the tree-houses.

My birthday was very, very low key, on account of moving in July. But my mom did make me an early present; a new bed spread and curtains in the prettiest pink/blue/green & yellow calico patchwork print. I loved it!

I was the new kid at Richard B. Russell Elementary; everyone else seemed to know each other from first grade. I didn't know any other kids in my "pod." To say I felt shy & out of place would have been an understatement. I felt especially awkward with the teacher, Mrs. "G." She was old and acted like it. Everyone said her sister had taught them in the first grade and they loved the sister. But we weren't too sure about our current teacher. (I wasn't alone in my sentiments.) Once, she asked us to tell about our parents. I told about all the pennies my dad had saved up in old liquor bottles. They were old pennies -- lots of wheats-- and they were old decorative decanters. I thought they were just wonderful, but Mrs. G started in on me about the evils of drinking and alcoholism. I'd never felt so small in all my life. I just cried, which only made the kids laugh at me. I think my friend George tried to cheer me up. He understood how I felt about coins. One day he brought some different coins to school & asked which of us wanted a English square penny. Me! Me! It's mine, a square penny from British Borneo. (I often wondered how the kids in England could get gum out of a gum machine if their pennies were square.) George moved away over Christmas with hardly a good-bye. Warner Robins was an Air Force town; little did I know that many people would come in & out of my life that way.

If George had stayed, I guess he & I would have "gone together." Suddenly everyone (except me) was "going together." This I couldn't figure out. Yes, I know it meant sort of a boyfriend/girlfriend thing, but even I knew we were only seven & eight, and we can't GO anywhere. I tried having a crush on Tom, since he was kinda cute, lived up the street from me & was in my Sunday School class, but he didn't welcome my attention. I guess chasing him on the playground is not the way to a man's heart.

Second grade was very busy for me. There was class, and spending time with Sally & her family. But there were also "activities." I was attending Sunday School for the first time, or as it was called at Sacred Heart Church, CCD. Sister Pius was our teacher and we were preparing for our First Communion in the Spring. We had a ton of prayers & stuff to learn about God & Jesus & Eucharist. If we didn't say our prayers just right, she'd yell at us. And then she tell us that we didn't want to make her mad-- that we hadn't seen her mad yet. Boy, if that wasn't her "mad," we didn't want to see the real thing. She was a real, old-school nun, the likes of which would never be seen again.

After school there was also dance lessons-- tap, ballet and tumbling at Mrs. Bonnie Robertson's Studio. For the time, the studio was in the bonus room of her basement. I really liked dance class; I learned the moves very quickly and enjoyed the feeling of dancing. I couldn't do the splits very well, but I could get a good, wide angle on my ballet positions, especially number two. My mom learned about the classes from one of the other Scouting moms. That was another of my favorite things to do, Brownie Scouts! We learned about nature & singing & games, and took field trips. My mom was one of the leaders of our troop, which was awkward sometimes, since she'd call on me to help out, but didn't favor me with help from herself. (????) Then there was the incident of singing at dues time on at the first troop meeting-- it was in the Brownie Handbook, unfortunately I'm such a goob. Did not sing the "Plink-plink" song again. But otherwise it was tons of fun.

In school, I wasn't very popular, but I did get something special. F.O.C.U.S. - Fostering Outstanding Creativity & Understanding in Students. It was an "enrichment class." There were only two second graders chosen for FOCUS, me and Melissa R. The rest of the students were 4th grade and up, but they were experimenting with 2nd & 3rd grades, as a mixed group. We mainly talked about stuff and did weekly worksheets with things like logic puzzles, vocabulary, and other "mind games." My dad got more of a kick out of my weekly sheets than I did!

The months moved by in kind of a blur. Mrs. G would miss a lot of days, and then after mid-term, she just wasn't there. Her health I guess. The teacher who'd been our most regular substitute, Mrs. Vizzini, was now our regular teacher. I liked Mrs. Vizzini. She'd recognized that I was a shy kid; she'd often let me have the privilege of sitting next to her at lunch, and was supportive of me in my classwork.

Soon it was spring and I became important! First Communion time had arrived. I had a new white dress with a poofy skirt and little multi-colored flecks shaped like little candies. So pretty. I had a white hair bow. I begged & begged for a veil like everyone else, but all we could afford was a bow. My grandmothers who came down to visit for the occasion were as disappointed as I was; if they'd known, they would have bought me one. Pride, as they say... but they made it up to me. I got little gifts of money (for bonds) and little cross necklaces. Babchu gave me a sterling & crystal rosary that was so beautiful! My mom almost "put it up" for me, but a good Catholic girl needs her rosary. My mom fried the last of the shrimp we'd frozen back in Brunswick for the dinner, and my dad got us Krispy Kreme donuts for breakfast. The biggest surprise was that Mrs. Vizzini dropped off a present for me at my house. I didn't know that teachers cared about kids outside of school. I was very, very touched that she remembered me with a little cross necklace.

Less than a month later was my dance recital. I felt like a princess! Our costumes had all sorts of sequins (sequins!!!!) on it, with little spaghetti straps. I wore it with a matching tutu for the ballet piece, and with a feathered headband for the tap piece. For tumbling, we just wore our leotards & tights. It was wonderful and I so looked forward to dancing again next year.

School finished, and we all got promoted. (Even some of the boys who made fun of me.) The year was full of experiments: having second graders in FOCUS, not including First Reconciliation with First Communion instruction, and now I was bridging up from Brownies to Junior Girl Scouts-- they had lowered the age. Well! This was exciting news indeed. Now I could earn badges, and I could even start this summer!!!!!! Oh, joy, oh joy!

For the summer, my brother & I were enrolled in swimming lessons at Dry Lake Pool. My brother was in a Pee-wee sort of class; mine was Advanced Beginners. I could not pass Advanced Beginners; I did not do the "heels-in-the-back-pockets" kick of the Elementary Backstroke just right. But a photographer came out and took lots of picture of my little brother having to be coaxed into the water. The cute little coward was all over the newspaper. Bleh.

Still, it was a nice summer, with days spent playing in the backyard or the woods, or at one of the area playgrounds, if my mom wasn't in the mood to take us to the pool. Sally got a new baby sister, and her brothers got a sleeping loft, so their room could also be the playroom. I would help Sally with her chores, including their vegetable garden. I did learn how to climb a little tree, if I could hold on to the fence underneath it. Right around my birthday, my parents found the time & the money to take my brother and I to Six Flags Over Georgia. Fun! Fun! Fun! I had high hopes.

(This should have been posted back on July 1. The past two weeks have been filled with visits from fiends & relatives and preparing to rearrange the kids' sleeping arrangements. Things that bring out the best in my procrastination. This post will soon have pictures added, of at least my school photo, dance costume and bead spread. Loved those! Thanks for all your kindness & patience.)

Mommy's Piggy Tales: Week 3: First Lessons

My mom took me out of the room and told me to stop crying and throwing a fit. I had gotten the silver candy-filled cupcake paper; I couldn't have the gold ballerina candle holder, too, if Kim had already chosen it. I should be nice to my friends or she'd send them home.

It still didn't seem fair to me that I couldn't have it all at my own 6th birthday party.

Trying to blow out the candles, with brother's help,

but before cake, there were sandwiches.

That summer had been hard enough already. My 3-year-old brother was being a streaking pest & had broken one of my favorite dolls. I had to take swimming lessons, and when we were told to scoop up water in our hands, I thought we were supposed to drink it, not blow bubbles. My dad thought I was being a poor winner and an even worse loser, so to teach me a lesson, he would soundly beat me at every game of checkers or Candyland until I acted like a good sport.

Then there were the pet problems. My first pet before we moved here was Les; they say I called him that when we got him because there would be "one less puppy" in the litter. A little German Shepherd becomes a big dog, and we had to get rid of him because he was always jumping all over us little kids & knocking us down. So they got us a hamster; the first one bit, and its replacement Curly, was put down before the year was out. I won a goldfish at the fair; it jumped out of the small bowl & died. We had the runt beagle from Papa P., and I called him Happy, 'cause as a new puppy he looked happy, even though he kept getting shoved out of the doghouse. Eating kid-table-droppings, he was now a big dog, too, and was always digging under the fence & out, so we had to send him back to Papa. Mom got us a long-haired dachshund; I called her Daisy, I guess after the comic strip dog, but I really didn't like her. She had bad breath. I wanted a rabbit. Or a cat. According to Dad, no way.

I tried running away from home to my Babchu up in Birmingham. I took all of my favorite things in my blocks bag, and my friend Kelly, too. We didn't get far. The trucks on the highway scared her. All I got out of that short trip was whipped, grounded, tired, a hole dragged into my blocks bag and my favorite toys & books scuffed. I did not get to live happily ever after with my grandmother.

First grade was full of a lot of "that's just the way life is, it ain't fair, get over it" lessons. I couldn't be queen, even on my birthday. If you scramble an egg, you have to wash the pan. If you sit on top of the swing-set & accidentally disturb a wasp's nest, you will get stung. Not good.

Class spring photo- that's me 1st row, 4th girl from right.

Yes, Mrs. Woody was that tall.

I went from a small private kindergarten, to a large public school on the other side of Brunswick. Something my mom would call "busing." I remember it being dark in the winter when I'd get on the bus. I didn't know anyone in Mrs. Woody's class; Michelle was in another classroom, as was Kelly.

I was shy and awkward; I had no clue how to make friends, unless someone approached me. Add to that, I was a bit naive. Or credulous. For example, two years ago when I first met Michelle, I think I asked her if she was a boy or a girl. Well, why not? Her hair was shorter than mine (which was short, since mine had just gotten long enough for spiky little piggy tails,) she was the first kid my age I'd seen with glasses, her play-clothes weren't frilly, and she was climbing trees with her big brother. I think it was her brother who might have said that she was "Michael," when I misheard her name. I was very embarrassed when Mommy told me I was wrong, that Michelle was a girl. And though my friends were sweet, they had their mean-girl sides and I went along with them. There was another girl in the neighborhood who seemed different; they didn't play with her, and the other girls plotted ways to trick her, like trying to give her a glass of muddy water. But when the other girls weren't around, I wanted to play with her; she seemed nice, it was just her mom who seemed mean. I didn't understand. Sometimes, my friends didn't want to play with me, either.

Fall photo, age 6

So, I'd spend time before school in the library, even though it was big & not at all the friendly place like the book mobile. I'd spend recess, not with the other girls playing jump rope, but with the boys who wouldn't let me play cars but would let me make "roads" though the pine straw. Sometimes I'd spend recess by myself out by the fence trying to count VW Things while I'd sing to myself about "twoallbeefpattiesspecialsaucelettucecheesepicklesonionsonasesameseedbun," or "Hold the pickle, hold the lettuce, special orders don't upset us, all we ask is that you let us serve it your way." Not sure how I spent lunch, but it must not have been fun. If I found a quarter while waiting for the bus to take me home, I'd turn in into the school office because that's what you do if you find something that isn't yours. Gullible, that's me.

I don't remember playing much. I read a lot. I was an advanced reader, so I didn't take many lessons with my class, but was taught with a girl from another class. If there was any testing, like vision & hearing, mine was done separately. I even took a test that no one else in my class took; it was fun-- lots of word questions and puzzles. Years later, my dad would tell me it was an IQ test.

Yep, I was turning out to be different, and I was starting to notice. I tried to fit in.

Homemade Halloween costumes, brother as leopard, me as bunny.

(See, great pjs for brother.)

My mom made me a bunny costume for Halloween, and it was designed to be pjs, too. I loved it! No one else did. I was also called chicken for not going up to the "haunted house."

My parents asked me if I wanted a bike for Christmas, and I really did. They helped me pick out a beautiful bright blue one, and took me for an extra trip to Santa to add that to my list. Christmas morning I looked for it, but didn't see it, so I figured he left it for me in Birmingham. My parents had to show it to me behind the Christmas tree. All Christmas vacation, I rode it with its training wheels. One weekend in January, my dad helped me ride without training wheels, and I fell and scraped my knee. I was chicken. I did not get back on that bike. So I couldn't ride bikes with my friends.

Christmas morning, I'm looking everywhere for that bike

BUT behind the tree over by my mom....

I was waiting to lose my fourth tooth, while everyone else was going on eight. And I was scared to let anyone else wiggle them.

My dad would have get-togethers with a a co-worker who had kids the same age as us. One rainy weekend, we all went down to the Jacksonville Zoo. They put all 4 of us kids in the same car. All I remember was it was a long trip and the dads watching the orangutan. And missing the school field trip to see the high school put on the play "Treasure Island." No the zoo didn't making me miss out, but the chicken pox did. My mom SWEARS that the other kids had recovered & she didn't mean for us to catch it. (I haven't asked my dad.) So my classmates got to catch doubloons, and I got tepid baths and cold spray-downs with calamine lotion. I didn't even get pity or presents; that was for my brother who had dots even in his hair & his ears & his mouth & his eyes. Easter was kinda off that year, too.

Then the naval base shut down; Kim & Kelly had to move before the end of the school year. I hardly got to say good-bye. But I guess that was OK. My dad was given a new store assignment, too, and we moved to Warner Robins that summer before my 7th birthday.

Life is hard for a little kid.

Mommy's Piggy Tales: Week 2: A Child's Garden (part 2 of 2)

We moved to Brunswick, Georgia, two weeks before I turned 4. Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Sort of. Mom says I didn't quickly cotton to our previous move to Valdosta, and I vaguely recall being defiant during the latest packing up (with at least one spanking...)

Age 4, and finally some hair

But now we were here and I got MY OWN ROOM! And then my mommy & daddy got some new bedroom furniture, so I got their full size bed, their dresser & the vanity. These had been my mommy's things as a teenager, and now they were mine. Sure, I had to let my brother have the wonderful toy box Daddy built, but I was a big girl now. With a big bed! Not a bad birthday present at all. I could still visit the toy box; it was great to hide in one of the two bins, or to sit way up on the top shelf.

Another great thing about Brunswick was I had friends. Three girls my age lived across the street from me: Kim & Kelli P., and Michelle B. We were all enrolled in St. David's Kindergarten for the fall. Kim was a year older than her sister Kelli, but Kelli, Michelle & I were all in the same class as four-year-olds, then as five-year-olds.

4yo Class, me center in green & white, Michelle behind me, Kelli second from left

I think I liked school very quickly. I got to color and paint and learn how to use scissors. I made a beautiful picture for my mommy called "The Land of Love." The two happy people were shaped like hearts and they were walking on a grass of hearts under a sky of hearts. My mommy framed it; it hung up for years in our kitchen.

School was playground with swings & eating those little yellow flowers that tasted sour like dill pickles (and getting hit in the head with a swing while picking a flower to nibble. Didn't do that again.)

5 and bright-eyed

School was writing. School was reading and books. The book-mobile would come by and I'd eagerly check out new books. My parents had to join a book-of-the-month club to keep up with me. I loved to read. I was self-taught. I don't remember learning how to read-- it'd just always been there.

School was trying new things and deciding I didn't like them, like climbing to the top of the monkey bars & getting stuck. Or try, try again learning to tie my shoes using shoes, lacing exercises and my Dressy Bessie doll. (That was a red-letter day; I bugged Mommy while she was folding laundry just so I could show her.)

Even at the beach, you have to wear a hat & coat in winter

School was music on Mondays, show & tell on Tuesdays, a bible story in the chapel on Wednesdays, art on Thursday and special things like films or the book-mobile on Fridays.

School was birthday parties & cupcakes during snack time, but only after Fr. Lantz tried three times with his magic flower to find out who was having a birthday. Of course, it was never me. Having a summer birthday became a big disappointment to me that way.

5yo class graduation, I'm second from left

But time away from school was wonderful, too. Times were simpler; a five-year-old could cross the street by herself to visit a friend. We all played together a lot. If it rained, the storm drains would back-up and our gutters became wading pools. Living is Brunswick was life in a coastal town. I saw the beach for the first time and was awed by it: all that water to play in, shells and driftwood to collect, big live oaks with branches so big and so low to be benches by the dunes, salt marshes filled with wildlife. In my own back yard, I would catch basking green anoles just to watch them change color; I'd giggle if their tiny mouths clamped on my fingers, and feel very badly if their tails broke off when escaping.

One weekend, my daddy found a turtle in the storm ditch behind our house; this was exciting and I was allowed to bring it to kindergarten for show & tell. I did just as I was told: only pick it up in the middle of the back. So.... we didn't know it was a snapping turtle that could reach all the way back there. Baby snapping turtle. No stitches on my finger, but the doctor gave me my DTP booster earlier than scheduled. (No! Not ANOTHER shot!) And yet after all that, I was sad that they had to let my turtle go.

Brunswick was where I fell in love with "nature." It's good to be young and in love.

Mommy's Piggy Tales: Week 2: Baby Steps (part 1 of 2)

Before I was born, my dad worked 3 jobs: police department, Sears & the National Guard. By the time I was born, he'd been getting enough hours & sales to quit the police department (much to my mom's relief), but he still had his commitments to the Guard. The weekend drills weren't bad. Summer camp was a pistol. His first years of camp, he talked his store manager into letting my mom cover his store hours to keep his position open, since he was part-time & they didn't have to. He was full-time by the time I turned one, so he could use vacation time while on Guard duty. But there's nothing he could use to cover Guard duty, so he missed my first birthday. My mom drove the two of us to Birmingham to celebrate with my dad's mom & the cousins on that side of the family. It was comforting to her, since dad was off at camp, and it was comforting to Grandmama, since Paw-paw had died not so long ago.

Almost 1!

(My dad didn't miss Neil Armstrong's walk on the moon. The convoy had been tuning into radio stations all the way to camp in south Georgia, and when it was announced that he was expected to leave the capsule within the hour, the whole convoy pulled over at a local elementary school along the route. Back then, who would break into a school in the summer? So my dad found an unlatched window, crawled in and plugged in the TV they'd brought; then everyone circled up to watch. Don't worry, my dad made sure every window & door was latched when they left.)

My mom remembers my little mispronunciations like "jabberjoy" for trapezoid while we played with the Tupperware shape-sorter ball. She also remembers I made a great little piggy "Oink." (Don't forget, I was chubby-- wonder who taught me that noise.) I remember getting my Fisher-Price stacking rings stuck on my feet & couldn't find my mom to help get them off. (DLG has done the exact same thing.)

Mostly, I don't have many memories until I was about 3 and life got different. My dad was promoted at Sears and was sent to Valdosta, Georgia, to learn how to be a store Controller (kind of like the head-accountant.) I have memories of playing in our back yard & sitting in the notch of the crabapple tree to watch the harvester in the field over the fence beyond the dirt road, and walking down that road with my Babchu to find real strawberries to pick & eat. I remember watching Romper Room with my daddy, and hiding behind his chair once, and Ms. Nancy didn't see me to call my name out through her magic mirror. I remember playing with my baby doll, giving her a bath & washing her hair in my baby pool. I remember a friend named Stephanie & using my baby slide & play chairs as a train. I remember a big box of Childcraft books arriving just for me. I remember my daddy & uncles deciding to turn the yard into a golf course by trying out the new post-hole digger, and them lifting me over the neighbor's garden-wire fence to fetch the golf balls that looked like little whiffle balls. I remember my daddy making me a humongous toy box and framing it in the living room. I remember my mommy using a baby-gate to keep me out of the office while she made fancy candle holders for Christmas presents by gluing old jars & plates together & painting them red.

Play-Doh & me (We still have the shakers.)

Then there was my brother. He arrived while we were living in Valdosta. My mom says that even though they'd wanted a lot of kids, they really hadn't wanted him born then & there. I think they'd either wanted us even closer in age than 3 years (which would have had us sharing the same birthplace,) or they'd hoped that he wouldn't happen until after my dad had finished his training and had been assigned a store. But he was born 3 months before my 3rd birthday. I remember I was excited. I remember I was brought to visit my mom while was I wearing my footie pjs. I remember we shared a room & he cried. A lot. And loudly.

Not quite 3, but not quite a big sister.

My brother, I am told, was late like me. And then even later, and the doctor didn't act very concerned-- even though my mom had been having contractions and had begun dilating. Grandmama had arrived (for a second time) to look after me, so my mom was able to go to her appointment alone. When the exam was over & the the doctor had left the room, my mom stood up and began gushing blood. It took a while for her to get a nurse to come back in, and then for the doctor to come back in. He decided that she needed to go to the hospital to have the baby, gave her a towel to wear under her clothes, and had her drive herself to the hospital a mile away. She barely made it in time for a very emergency, very rough C-section. She had placenta preveria & no one had a clue. Not even the doctor. In 1970, she & my brother came very close to bleeding to death. To this day, I still find it hard to believe that no one had a clue, even after she began dilating; as an adult, I'm very angry that what seems to me as carelessness could have cost me my mother & my brother.

Beth (3 1/2) and Billy (7 months)

But that was then. And then I was a little girl who was very glad to have a baby brother, even if he was loud. And I didn't even mind that he got sick around Thanksgiving & had to go to the hospital again; that just meant I had my Grandmama again and she served up pancakes & orange juice for breakfast, let me play with Play-Doh and made me a pretty doll just like the ones she was making for her church bazaar. We little ones only know ourselves. Sometimes that is the better part of remembering.

Mommy's Piggy Tales: Week 1: Begin

I was born in the "Summer of Love." Not that my parents were paying attention. July is very hot in South Alabama, and it's even harder to be interested in anything when mommy is 9 months along & daddy has just wrapped up summer camp with the National Guard. If their minds were anywhere other than on my imminent arrival, they were out in space-- either following the events at The Cape, or checking out a new series called Star Trek.

I was almost the baby that wasn't. My poor mom suffered endometriosis something horrible. Migraines, cramps, nausea: you name it, she got it once a month. She and dad had hopes of starting a family right after they got married in 1961. Didn't everyone? But month after month, year after year, no baby. Finally a doctor not only believed that my mom was suffering once a month instead of being "hysterical," he gave it a name & told her that all of the cramping had twisted her ovaries out of place so that all her good efforts were being launched out into the space of her abdomen. Well. So a little surgery to get those ovoids tacked back in place, a short recovery period, and then me.

My birth story, as written by my mom in my baby book: "I entered the hospital at 10:00 a.m. on July 31. They took me to the third floor where they have the labor and delivery rooms. They prepared me and broke my water. They gave me two shots which put me to sleep until about 3:30. All this time your daddy was in the waiting room. He must have been very tired because he only had an hour's sleep that night, because we were timing my pains. At about four o'clock, they took me to the delivery room and put me on the delivery table. You were a big baby and the doctor had to use forceps to pull you out. You looked so plump and pretty. And you cried your little head off. You were born at 4:22 p.m. Your color at first was a pale blue but when you started breathing on your own you changed to a pretty white. I think you were born with the fattest, prettiest cheeks I've ever seen. I was allowed to see and hold you for the first time at 9:00 p.m."

The unmentioned, less poetic parts of story: That to this day my dad will not play canasta because he & my mom stayed up all night playing it while they timed out the contractions. (I don't know if he willingly stayed up with anticipation, kindly did so because he loved my mother, or was threatened with his life if he dared fall asleep. They don't say, except that he won't play canasta.) That my birthday was a busy day; my poor mom wasn't even assigned a room when she arrived-- they just parked her in a hall with a privacy curtain until a delivery room opened up. That she even had to have a substitute doctor! Dr. Tankersley couldn't catch with his hands all bandaged; summer cookout, new sliding glass door, forgot something in the kitchen, you get the idea.... but he did supervise the sub Dr. Russell.

Elizabeth Veronica, born July 31, 4:22 p.m., 8 lbs. 3 oz., 20 inches

I am named after my mom's two grandmothers who helped raise her; Granny Elizabeth was her own dad's mother and Babchu Veronica was her mom's mother.

My dad tells this story about how awed he was with me. He found me tiny. He found he could cradle my head in the palm of his hand and my bottom would just reach the crook of his elbow. It was one of those tender moments that photographers love. Good thing there was wasn't one. I ruined the moment by having a poopy diaper, and you know those don't stay contained in a cloth diaper that just gapes off of a newborn. Dad describes it as slimy-green running all over his arm & down his elbow. Eww. Thanks, dad.

There are few picture of me as a baby; remember, this is the late 60's. Even home photos took money & time. But there's a few of me screaming in the bath tub. (Funny, I adore long baths.) A few with different relatives. My cousin has unearthed a few from my baptism that I'd never seen until last year, so obviously my parents had their hands full of me & not camera that day. There's even a few of me pulling up on furniture. But every picture you see of me over the age of a month show a roly-poly chubbette with mere dimples where my knees & ankles should be. Let's just say that breastfeeding wasn't supported in the 60's either. We'll never know what/how it happened, but the doctor told my mom that she wasn't making enough milk and that I wasn't regaining my weight as quickly as he wanted me to. So by the age of 2 weeks, I was off the breast and on a barley & milk filled bottle. Jars of Gerber were only 2 days behind. I couldn't sit up and I was eating "solids." To this day my dad calls me Lardbottom. Thanks, dad.

(Lest you think my dad heartless, I am a daddy's girl. And he really adores me. He's just a guy, but even guys can cry. One year, we all were watching some old home movies my dad had made, and we found one he'd forgotten about. It was of me and HIS father. Papa S. was sitting on a bed with a 3-month-old me, and he was getting me to follow his car keys with my eyes and head. The forceps marks were slow to fade and Papa S. was worried about little me. I was his fourth grandchild, but he was worried. Seeing that scene again, this time knowing that his own father would be dead less than 6 months after that..... it's one of the few times I've seen my father cry. The next time would be at my high school graduation.)

I look at my "firsts," and I see my daughter: smiling at 5 weeks and general seeming happy, really wanting to sit up and trying so hard by 3 months, crawling by 5 months, pulling up to stand by 6 months, clapping and cruising on furniture at 8 months, walking a week before my first birthday. Liking eating. Not having much hair at all that first year (or two.)

Maybe, having her around is a part of why I want to write these "tales." In many ways, my story could be her story. She'll be her own person, sure, but it doesn't hurt to remind myself just what I may be getting in to.

Coming soon...

to a blog near you! (Well, this one at least. Could be more.)

Janna at The Adventures of Motherhood has started a new blog, one dedicated to remembering who we were as kids, and where we might be going as adults. She loves having "Remember when..." conversations with her own mom & family, and would like to share those joys with her daughter someday. The best time to start someday is NOW.

Starting June 10th, and for the following 14 Thursdays, she and other linked up bloggers/FaceBookers/MySpacers will tell their stories about growing up, in as many or as few words as they like. (I like Strunk & White's admonishment that "Vigorous writing is concise." I'll admit: it's difficult to "Omit needless words.")

Sounds fun! Will you join me? Click here to get started, too.