A Metacognitive

Reminiscence:  Kindergarten

            by Lindsay Rotblatt

 

"Just be funny," my teacher said to me, "its really not that difficult, I mean we've gone over all the basic techniques, we've read multiple stories and analyzed them, you should be able to write something decent!" Perhaps my teacher hasn't met me.

 I, Lindsay Jessica Francie Rotblatt, yes Francie (don't poke fun) am not N-O-T, not funny. Ever since Kindergarten I've been made fun of for being the girl who always told the kid next to me in class to be quiet when the teacher was talking, the girl who never got sent outside, and of course, the girl who could be aptly named "teachers pet". With these sorts of credentials, one cannot expect much funniness from me. But here I am, staring blankly at my glowing computer screen, the neon font haunting me and taunting me. "I know I can't be funny" I yell at my computer, Daisy. And yes, my computer is named Daisy, haven't you ever read The Great Gatsby? My iPod's name is Gatsby… get it? Oh goodness. Anyways, I really should stop berating my poor computer.  It just makes me sound kind of odd.  So as I sit here, punching the tender keys of my Mac, I am going to try to explain to you in lightness of comedy, my kindergarten experiences that have rendered me un-funny.

Please note that the following stories are merely an attempt at my trying to be humorous. If you do not believe my work is amusing, I would ask that you please refrain from writing me or phoning me your opinion. Thank you oh so much.

 

For most people, Kindergarten brings back fond memories of pick-up sticks, goldfish crackers, and smelly markers, but for me, that first supple year of my education at Prospect Elementary School brings back pain and utter disillusionment. Perhaps the most poignant memories of my suffering occurred in three separate, yet equally traumatizing incidences.

 

Tiddlywinks

Parents have a way of telling their friends about how smart their Timmy or Sally is, and my parents are no exception. I was quite dexterous at a very young age and my parents would always tote me around in one of those obnoxiously brightly colored baby hampers (with name monogram) telling other parents about how amazing it was that I could eat an olive and spit out the pit. Perhaps olives are a great feat for a three year old, but my curiosity “killed the cat” (if you will) when I got my hands on tiddlywinks.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with such things as pogs, troll dolls, and teacup bunnies, tiddlywinks are perhaps the most epic of all toys from the 90s. Inside the oddly (mushroom like) shaped vestibule contained the shiny little round objects that I, the “olive-spitting child” decided to shove up my right nostril. I don’t know why I did it necessarily, but I do know that I have always had a thing for exploration.

It was a bright yellow tiddlywink, about a centimeter in diameter and about as thick as a pin that I managed to shove as high up my nose as possible so that not even the most booger-picking pro fingers could reach. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I mean, it’s not like I hadn’t stuck other round plastic objects up my nose before. I was six and it’s not like this was unreasonable behavior. However, my mother thought otherwise. Her bright young kindergartener wasn’t exactly the brightest crayon in the otherwise dull box. “Lindsay what on earth are you doing?” she screamed.

“Mama, look, its up my nosey!” I yelled back. “It kinda feels funny.”

“We are taking you to the emergency room right now to get that removed!”

Yes, you heard that right, the EMERGENCY ROOM for a tiddlywink! I really was a brilliant child. So there we were at Alta Bates sitting among those with broken limbs, cuts on their faces, and bruised bodies. I had to explain to the woman at the front desk that I “accidentally shoved a yellow plastic object up my nose” in my cutest voice (my mother told me this would make her help me faster) and hope that she had some sympathy. The wait really didn’t take very long as they thought an injured 6 year old trumped a 30 year old man who had recently survived a car accident. I was hustled into a room where they lay me down on a white bed, gave me a few “pain relievers”, and began to work.

“Why do you have tweezer thingys?” I said cautiously.

“Darling, just sit still okay?” the nurse told me. I wasn’t having any of this.

“Eww, can’t I just try to pick it out again?” And with a firm “No,” from the nurse, I had the tiddlywink removed from my nostril. The nurse visciously placed the tweezers up my tiny nose and dug (for what seemed like hours) until she could get the two prongs secure around the plastic object. Ripppppp! And out it went. A slightly more greenish shade of yellow than before with a few cracks, my tiddlywink was no longer useable.

“All better now sweetheart,” the nurse said to me.

“Thank you,” my grateful mother said to the nurse, “now Lindsay, you say thank you!”

“Why?” I said frustrated, “She broke my tiddlywink!”

 

The Little Angelfish That Couldn’t

I had always loved sharks. Now it might sound odd that a kindergartener would have such an affinity for the cuddly beast known as the shark, but ever since I was three I had always dreamed of having one of my own. Truly the perfect pet for a 6 year old, I managed to coerce my father into buying me one. “Daddy please, it’ll keep Skippy and Flutterbug company!” I cried, until eventually I owned my very own baby leopard shark. I never named him, but I loved him nonetheless.

Now, you may be wondering who on earth Skippy and Flutterbug were. Before my father allowed me opportunity of owning my very own shark to pet and play with, I had two very pissy angelfish. Usually I wouldn’t venture to call anything pissy, let alone two seemingly harmless fish, but honestly, I had never met a meaner pair in my whole life. For some reason, the aptly named “angelfish” decided it was all right to nibble at Squiggly and Muffin, my two guppies. I’d come back from school everyday and it seemed that a little bit of Muffin or Squiggly’s tail would be missing. I yelled at screamed and Skippy and Flutterbug, but it did no good. That’s what, let’s call him Sharkey, was for.

 At first when I introduced Sharkey into the tank with Skippy, Flutterbug, Squiggly, and Muffin all seemed to be going harmoniously. It seemed like the perfect conglomerate. Two fun-loving guppies would make my bratty angelfish less sour, and a sweet baby leopard shark could add a little spice to the tank! However, all did not go as planned. Skippy and Flutterbug did not like my new shark, however, Sharkey was not going to have any of this. And it was on one fateful day when I came back from elementary school that I found Skippy laying in a little puddle of water on the floor next to my tank. For some reason, the sour little angelfish couldn’t handle the others and decided to commit suicide. As hilarious as self-hating angelfish might be to some, I was scarred for life. I immediately flushed the rest of my fish down the toilet bowl, gave away my shark, and moved on to pet geckos.

 

Fiskars (aka the child-safe Scissors)

There is a horribly sick person sitting somewhere in a big CEO desk at Fiskars who invented the “child-safe scissors”. To a teenager, the 99% plastic tool may seem useless. In third grade classrooms throughout the country you can hear moans of “these wont cut my paper” to “why am I using these, I’m not a baby!” All those who whine about Fiskars should take heed in my warning; these are no child-friendly objects.

The project was simple, create a collage out of National Geographic magazine cut outs and glue it to a piece of poster board. Simple for a high schooler as well as for a kindergartener, right? Perhaps not. This was our first class project that involved staples, scissors, and glue all at once and while this may not seem so advanced for most, as an innocent 6 year old, working with the three was a serious task.

Now I was never one to provoke arguments or anything of that nature, instead I sat next to Sarah and Sofia quietly snipping out cuttings of antelope, bare breasted African women, and the opium plant (you know, the usual things National Geographic has photos of). It all happened so suddenly though. The moment where I was officially traumatized for life, the moment when the child-friendly Fiskars became not so friendly.

“OUCH!!!!!!!!!!” I shrieked and began to cry. A pair of hot pink and orange scissors had managed to find their way into my eye. I don’t know how they got there (though I do know who did it) or why they got there but Fiskars, no matter how safe they may be, hurt a lot more than the damn back of the packaging would ever admit. Try stabbing a handful of safety pins into your eye and you tell me how safe they are, huh? See my point? Names are deceiving. The project had gone from a saccharine sweet art project into a bitter mess of pain and discomfort.

Upset and frazzled I continued on with my collage. Afraid of the Fiskars, I preferred to use my fingers to isolate the animals for my 2-D jungle. The glue and I managed to get along fine, leaving only a few “Glue was here” marks on my skirt, but the staple and I didn’t mesh very well either. I managed to stable my thumb to my collage at first try.

 

Why was I such an accident-prone young tyke? Perhaps we’ll never know. It’s truly amazing I’ve made it this far despite my kindergarten years. Filled with mishaps, traumas, the misery of a suicidal fish… one would have thought my first day of first grade would have included a long (probably much needed) therapy session! Perhaps, I should have gone.

So here I sit, my hands tired of punching little keys with letters on them, my eyes are fading out. I just proofread my piece and it looks pretty awful. I’m sorry you had to read it. Spelling errors, copyright infringement (sorry Fiskars, but your products need some re-naming), it’s really enough to make any good English teacher cry. But then again, wouldn’t you laugh if your English teacher cried after reading your piece? Perhaps what I’m getting at is this, one man’s pain, is another mans comedy. Laugh at the sad, the traumatic, and the painful incidences. If you don’t they might just be more painful.

 

Side Note:

To the makers of Tiddlywink, Fiskars, Pogs, Goldfish Crackers, and any other registered copywrite or trademark I would like to apologize for the poor light which I may have shed on your products. However, I hope that you understand that labeling and naming is important. Perhaps a “do not stick up nose” warning label would be useful for your tiddlywinks?