Kindgergarten (4k) - 1990

I remember my first day of kindergarten. The memory feels so close that it's almost tangible, like an orb of images that I can reach out and hold in my palm. I was four, and it was almost autumn. I stepped out of the car and the laughter and giggles of other children filled my ears. I smiled and looked up at my dad for confirmation that this was the right place. I couldn't believe that I was a big girl now and I'd get to start school. The world was at my feet.

Another grown person approached my parents, and ten stories above my head grown-up conversations were being had about the daily schedule and lunch times and pick up times. Their voices were distant and sounded like giants mumbling above the clouds. My eyes were focused on the kids playing on the playground. Their giggles were infecting me with joy and excitement. I watched in wide-eyed wonderment. I had picked out my favorite outfit: my red and navy blue sweater with the red heart in the middle, my navy blue pants to match, my white laced cuffed socks and shiny black mary-jane style shoes that had a flower on the strap. My long hair was pulled back with a navy blue head band, but still the slight breeze playfully blew thin strands of my hair in my face. With my hand, I quickly brushed my hair back in place. I was ready.

A kind rumble from above broke my concentration, and I looked up, "Are you ready, sweetie?" My dad said smiling big. I smiled back and said "Yeah." My mom and dad took my hand and walked me to the sidewalk and stopped. The other grown lady followed us, then turned and looked at me, "Hey Megon, my name is Mrs. Hall. I'm the teacher, and I'm very glad that you're here." I looked up at her, then at the other kids, then back at her. "Well, we're going to go inside now and learn some neat things. Can you tell mommy and daddy goodbye? You can play for a few minutes on the play ground until we're ready to go in."
"Her name is mama. I call her mama." I stated.
"Ok, well, mama needs to go to work. Can you tell her bye? She'll be back later I promise." With this, she held out her hand to me.

I looked over again at two little girls on the see saw and then looked at my mom, "Bye, mama!" At that I broke into a wild run toward the gate. I reached for the handle, and then for some reason I realized that I was going to be here by myself without my mom and dad, and I didn't know when they were coming back. For a four year old, that terrified me. My heart dropped and I whipped around still hoping I'd see my parents there. And they were. I took a few steps toward them and then randomly said with a small quiver in my voice, "What are we having for supper? Are you coming back?" They obviously chuckled a little and my mom, holding her composure, stated kindly, "Your favorite. Hotdogs, and yes, we are coming back. I promise." And to me, that was good enough confirmation so, I hugged them goodbye and ran onto the playground.

The image of what happened next fades into a blurry mess and nothing is really clear after that. But I remember this portion and often confirm it with my mom. She filled in a few fuzzy spots, but in all, the dialogue definitely happened. It's so funny what the mind chooses to hang onto so vividly, and other moments just feel like they never happened. But I like this memory.