I know. I know I'm sorry. It's been forever. Cliche, right I know. I've been writing recently, inspired by Haven Kimmel. Maybe I'll put that in for right now. I know it's out of the norm, but I need to get F. off my back. ;-)
My first memory is of sitting in a car seat, staring out the window in the rain, at an airport, assumedly dropping off my father.
He was a computer consultant, and as such, we didn’t really settle down until I was a bit under two.
When I was born I had red hair, which contributed to the choosing of my name. It grew in very finely, and I didn’t have much of it to speak of. At the age of two, it all fell out, and I was bald for a period of time before my brown, near-black hair grew in and eventually developed into charming ringlets which also disappeared later.
I don’t recall getting my scar. I was under three when it happened. We were moving from Tucson, Arizona to San Jose, California. My parents had left me in a fairly bare room while they packed up the truck. There was bed frame. When I was in elementary school, I once lied and said I remembered what happened, but all I know is what they told me. I must have slipped on something, because they heard an ungodly scream from the bedroom, and when they found me I had run a piece of metal on the bed frame straight through my upper lip. I don’t remember being conscious of it until kindergarten when someone asked me how I’d gotten my scar. That evening my parents told me the story. I had no idea.
I remember pieces of preschool, like when I played find the pretend worms in the sand with a friend, or when I learned how to put shirt on by myself and spent hours practicing it. Or the teachers walking us to the local high school so we could go swimming in their pool, or making a puppet out of the McDonald’s French fry container that I had been brought by one of my parents (presumably my dad, and presumably filled with fries).
I don’t remember my first day of kindergarten, although there is a photo of me in socks and sandals. I remember chunks of it, like riding trikes in the garden, not finishing my work and going to gym class with everyone else even though that was the rule. I got caught. I didn’t care. Rules were stupid. They applied to other kids. I knew what I was doing. I could read before I started kindergarten, so seriously, what was I doing there?
I wrote my own book at the age of five. It was about a girl who didn’t have anything to do and everyone in her family was busy. The family consisted of her mom and her sister. I myself only had a mother and a father. But I lived on a street with many other children, so rarely was I lacking for playmates.
But rarely did I want them anyway. When I look back, my childhood seems like an endless land of riding my bike solo up and down my block and playing with my enormous amount of Barbies. It was happy, but I vividly recall that much of the time it was so quiet in the house I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.
My mom was a medical transcriptionist, so I was not home alone at all until fifth grade. She would sit in the office, which was the master bedroom, and type away all day. I would get picked up from school by her, either by her driving or walking. It was a little less than half a mile from my house to school.
I recently found out that my elementary school shut down due to budgetary cuts.
He was a computer consultant, and as such, we didn’t really settle down until I was a bit under two.
When I was born I had red hair, which contributed to the choosing of my name. It grew in very finely, and I didn’t have much of it to speak of. At the age of two, it all fell out, and I was bald for a period of time before my brown, near-black hair grew in and eventually developed into charming ringlets which also disappeared later.
I don’t recall getting my scar. I was under three when it happened. We were moving from Tucson, Arizona to San Jose, California. My parents had left me in a fairly bare room while they packed up the truck. There was bed frame. When I was in elementary school, I once lied and said I remembered what happened, but all I know is what they told me. I must have slipped on something, because they heard an ungodly scream from the bedroom, and when they found me I had run a piece of metal on the bed frame straight through my upper lip. I don’t remember being conscious of it until kindergarten when someone asked me how I’d gotten my scar. That evening my parents told me the story. I had no idea.
I remember pieces of preschool, like when I played find the pretend worms in the sand with a friend, or when I learned how to put shirt on by myself and spent hours practicing it. Or the teachers walking us to the local high school so we could go swimming in their pool, or making a puppet out of the McDonald’s French fry container that I had been brought by one of my parents (presumably my dad, and presumably filled with fries).
I don’t remember my first day of kindergarten, although there is a photo of me in socks and sandals. I remember chunks of it, like riding trikes in the garden, not finishing my work and going to gym class with everyone else even though that was the rule. I got caught. I didn’t care. Rules were stupid. They applied to other kids. I knew what I was doing. I could read before I started kindergarten, so seriously, what was I doing there?
I wrote my own book at the age of five. It was about a girl who didn’t have anything to do and everyone in her family was busy. The family consisted of her mom and her sister. I myself only had a mother and a father. But I lived on a street with many other children, so rarely was I lacking for playmates.
But rarely did I want them anyway. When I look back, my childhood seems like an endless land of riding my bike solo up and down my block and playing with my enormous amount of Barbies. It was happy, but I vividly recall that much of the time it was so quiet in the house I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.
My mom was a medical transcriptionist, so I was not home alone at all until fifth grade. She would sit in the office, which was the master bedroom, and type away all day. I would get picked up from school by her, either by her driving or walking. It was a little less than half a mile from my house to school.
I recently found out that my elementary school shut down due to budgetary cuts.
1 comment:
Yay! You have a blog!
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