looking through me

One of the most traumatic days of my life occurred when I was five. I lined up with the rest of my class on the kindergarten playground, but my teacher was not there.

We had a substitute.

And I did the only thing I knew to do. I refused to go with a stranger.

As I sat in the principal’s office and she tried to convince me it was safe to go to class and that my teacher would be back the next day I became inconsolable. I believed my teacher would never come back.

Finally the principal called my eldest brother to the office. With all of his fourth grade wisdom he explained the concept of a substitute teacher. He promised he’d had them, and his teachers always came back; mine would too. He hugged me. He sat with me.

I was unswayed. I spent the day in the office.

Sometimes even the words of my brothers weren’t enough to assuage my stubborn fears.

This post is part of the 31 Days: Family series. Read the beginning, and see a full index of posts, here.

“What kind of fair is that?”

That was my phrase. My incessant question.

And nine-and-a-half times out of ten it was asked because my older brothers were allowed to do something I was not. I could not understand they were older, they were bigger, they were more able. If they could climb that tree, I was sure I could, too. Go to their age-appropriate schools? I wouldn’t interrupt.

No doubt it was the question I posed as a three-year old when I saw my brothers dressed for the church Christmas program. They were shepherds. White tunics with reddish over-pieces and matching reddish headpieces. Very impressive.

And that day it wasn’t a battle Mom was willing to fight. Into a red long-sleeve shirt and overalls I went. They were caring for sheep; I was a farmer.

I look far happier than they do in the picture in the Christmas album.

This post is part of the 31 Days: Family series. Read the beginning, and see a full index of posts, here.