My grade three teacher was a tall robust woman. Her greying hair was always slicked back in a super tight low lying bun and her thick hexagonal glasses sat just before tip of nose. The only thing soft about her angry face was the pink lipstick she wore on her thin lips.
I can’t recall too much of that year other than her chastising me for being born left handed, the ‘no yawning’ rule, that one time she smacked Jaclyn on the top of her hand for smelling my lip gloss, and that other time she dumped John’s desk….
…with him still sitting in it.
I liked her earrings and long flowing skirts though.
“So, tell me about it. What was it like for you?” my son asked me as he kicked at a loose newspaper on the side of the curb.
But truthfully, that’s all I can really remember of it.
“Grade three was so long ago.”
“I know that you had a bad day yesterday. Today is a new day. Try and think positive. It’s a new start.”
He forcefully kicked at a stone. Then another.
Shoot. Think of something positive about grade three and that woman – that teacher who thought us kids stole the air out of her lungs every time we yawned on the reading carpet. Think of something positi–
“Mom, are you trying to think of something positive about the old school days? It’s OK mom. I know that you old people didn’t have things like we do now like iPads in the class. We learned all about the pioneer days last month. You must have had it rough. So you’re probably having a hard time finding something positive about what happened to you in grade 3. It’s OK”
“I just wanted you to tell me funny stories about school. I like hearing about the things you did at school. You make me laugh.”
“Oh. But, hey just so we are clear, I’m not a pioneer!”
“It’s OK mom. I still love you if you’re old.”
“I’m not old!”
“You have grey hair.”
Chunky Monkey: And it’s beautiful.
Me: You’re lucky you’re cute.
Chunky Monkey: You’re lucky you’re still alive.