Elementary school (Revisited).

Back in the day, I loved the first day of school. I was so pumped about meeting my new teacher, seeing old friends, meeting new ones, and just being back in the routine of school life again. I loved school supplies and putting them in my new backpack. My friends at school did not have the same perspective. They dreaded this moment in which they had to walk back into BlahBlahBlah Elementary School. They wanted more days of summer. Don't get me wrong, I loved my summers, too. But there was something about school that attached itself to me.First day of school good luck goodies for the Smartie Pants in all of us.

In kindergarten, my teacher Mrs. Gaye was reading a picture book to us. We were all sitting criss-cross applesauce on the carpet. I was in the middle of the crowd of kindergarteners, wide-eyed and hands in my lap. It was a book with animals in it. Suddenly I felt my nose become runny. Not snot-runny. Just liquid-runny. The kind of runny that you may infer from a bloody nose. I looked down and sure enough there were little drops of blood on my hands and shirt.
I raised my hand, internally freaking out but externally keeping it cool, like whatever. I'm the cool kindergartener that raises her hand to add some smart comment about the details in the picture or analysis of the main character. No. Not me. Everyone turned to look at me and so begins my avalanche of embarrassing moments in school.
It wasn't that bad. The TA escorted me to the sink, washed me up, and I was fine. But still. Who's a fan of bloody noses? Especially as a five-year old. Especially in kindergarten. Especially in whole-group reading.

My third grade teacher was coincidentally my favorite: Mrs. Claxton. I have no idea whether or not she is still teaching. I don't remember exact examples of why she was so wonderful. I just remember she made my classmates and I feel extraordinary. The way she instructed us was more discussion-based, and she actually cared about what our responses were when we raised our hands. Truly cared.

Lastly, in sixth grade I was not feeling it. It was the beginning of truly visible clique alliances. I never thought I belonged in a specific one. Just one of those who bounced around from one to another. It was also the year that I saw what it meant to "go out" with someone. Although I'm pretty sure it meant "go out" on the playground and then "break up" on the school bus. I met my first you're-too-young-for-this pregnant girl in the sixth grade. I wasn't shocked at first because I was 12, innocent, and naive. But now I am. Shocked and disturbed.

I had a major crush on this boy all throughout elementary school. I remember replaying all these made-up scenarios in my head, creating drama out the wazoo for my own amusement. How little those things that seem compared to now. Boys will always be boys.

I cannot wait to be a part of these third graders' lives, even if it's for a mere 10 months. I know how much Mrs. Claxton, Mrs. Gaye, and my other elementary school teachers meant to me. They were my third parent, my nurse, my role model, my source of knowledge. They made my school experiences wonderful. And I liked school. Don't lie, you liked elementary school too. It wasn't until middle school that it became bad, right?