Kindergarten

I didn't want stitches. I had seen my little brother get them several times. It didn't look pretty, or fun.  So I sat in the doctors office screaming bloody murder that I. Would. Not. Have. Stitches.

The way I remember it, we were lining up to go to recess. The front of the room was lined with counters, flanking the door in and out of the classroom. I was proudly named line leader for the day, which when in kindergarten, is kind of  a big deal.  We were getting settled in line when things in the back got rowdy. Like a row of dominoes, each child pushed the one in front, until it hit the line leader. I was pushed and knocked off balance by Tony Henry, and splat, my forehead was introduced in the most  personal way to the corner of the counter. That place were the two counter ends meet forming a cruel sharp point kissed my head causing the flesh to split open.  Kindergartners do not deal well with blood, and there was plenty of the bright red stuff all over.  The children erupted in more chaos, I was screaming and crying bloody murder, and poor Mrs. Lazane was left to clean up and calm a class of about 25 five year olds and take me to the school nurse.

I was so glad to see my mom. I cried and pleaded that I didn't want stitches.Please no stitches. But she said that I might need them, and that David has had them 2 times already, and he is just fine. The attemted reassurance did little to abate my profound fear.

 After his examination of me, the doctor said I may indeed need stitches. I protested, vehemently. Crying and wailing and behaving in the most absured mannor. (The kind of thing I hate for my young patients to do today) I ended up with several butterfly band-aids under a larger band-aid.  No stitches.  Just a scar that is still visible nearly 25 years after the incident occurred. And the most vivid memory I have of my time in kindergarten. Not the play-doh, not the milk and graham crackers for snack, not my first kiss with a boy named Justin. Just the ugly scar I still carry today. I guess some of the scars of our childhood are worn on the outside as well as the inside.

This was a post for the RemembeRED prompt: Remember kindergarten. If, after thinking about it for a while, you can't recall anything, move on to first grade. Mine your memories and write about the earliest grade you can recall. What was special? What was ordinary? What did you feel? Hear? See? Smell?