How I Survived Kindergarten… Mostly
Fifty Years Later, I’m Almost Over It
For the record, I raised my hand.
I stretched my arm as high up as it would go and scootched up to the edge of my seat, back straight, as tall as I could make my little self. Mrs. Miller just looked right past me and called on some other kid. I wriggled my hand, my whole self around a bit, and switched arms — in case the other was longer. She turned toward the board and wrote something I don’t remember in big block letters. I crossed my legs. Mrs. Miller moved as slowly as that ketchup on tv. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, concentrated.
Please call on me. Please call on me.
She turned and looked right past me, my hand still sky-high.
I felt my face grow hot. My eyes got blurry. I blinked out tears.
I gave one final desperate hand wave.
And peed my pants.
Except I wasn’t even wearing pants. I was wearing my favorite red and white gingham dress — like Dorothy, but modern. So, I peed through my underwear onto the plastic bucket chair. Also, they shouldn’t call it a bucket chair. It wasn’t anything like a bucket because it spilled out and down my leg, soaking into my little lace foldover socks and leaving a puddle of piddle around my genuine…
