My Not-So-Ordinary Life
By Christine Rice
Copyright 2012 Christine Rice
Smashwords Edition
Discover other titles by Christine Rice at Smashwords.com:
Poetry for the Heart
Essays for the Soul
Table of Contents
It all started January 1st, 1981, but that is not my first memory. My first recollection was a thought, which made me alive as a person. I was two years old riding in a car with my parents down a winding road in New Hampshire. We were on the way to see my grandparents and I thought, “I can’t wait until I’m three.” Which, even to this day, I love birthdays, especially my own. Maybe it’s because it falls on a holiday. Or maybe it’s because I love getting older, because then I’ll be maturing. However, being mature hasn’t happened to me yet. I’m in my late twenties and I still feel like a teenager. “When will I grow up?” I wonder.
So there I was enjoying the trip down a country road I can still visualize. It had a river and a small walk-bridge on the left side and woods on the right (depending on which direction travelling, of course). I was daydreaming, which I do a lot even now. I’m one of those people who think a lot more than they actually speak and I was thinking how great it would be to be three years old. In those days my hair was very blond and fairly short (I still have a picture). My parents were together and probably more unhappy than ever, at least my mom. I was told that she got married and started a family, because hers was torn apart. Her parents divorced while she was attending college and I think she still has resentments about it. She didn’t finish college and then got married and had me shortly after.
My parents and I lived in the city I was born in for a couple of years and then moved two states away. I’ve lived in New England my entire life and I like it here, but I also don’t know what it’s like to live anywhere else. I do know that I enjoy the cooler weather and feel uncomfortable in hot climates. I also enjoy the peacefulness of the mountains, lakes, and woods.
By the age of three I was already writing. I would write on any surface possible, because I found it was so amazing that two words identified me and my age. I got into minor trouble for writing on things I shouldn’t have; but I was an only child at the time and never terribly bad, so I didn’t get punished much. The two main things that I would write were my first name and the number three. In fact, my dad still has a cribbage board and the box cover has my three year old writing on it.
I was enrolled in kindergarten at age four. My parents found I was mentally ready for school at the time and didn’t want me to be bored. My first school years were spent in the basement of a lady’s home where she taught approximately fifteen children at a time. I don’t know the reason why I was enrolled in a private kindergarten, because I wouldn’t guess my parents could afford it. My teacher was really nice. She was large, middle-aged, and one of her arms wasn’t complete (she was born that way). She cut up apples for our snacks, and I remember this, because I watched her carefully, marveling at how well she managed it.
I was also in daycare during the afternoons. I was allergic to milk, because it would make my stomach feel sick. Therefore, I was able to drink juice during afternoon snack time and all the kids were jealous. At least I thought so, because I much more preferred having juice. The daycare was also privately owned and in a basement. It was a fun place, because it had a small room off the main room that had a small indoor jungle-gym and a bunk bed. There was also a closet or other small room that was “off-limits.” It probably held the owners’ belongings in it.
I was one day too young to start first grade, so I went to kindergarten for another year. I was first introduced to math, which I did instead of arts and crafts. Maybe that’s why I didn’t struggle with math throughout my school years.
Now I am able to go to a real school. It seemed huge and there were kids everywhere, even though I would guess now that it was an average-sized elementary school. That is when my shyness kicked in, because I learned about intimidation and competition. I also learned about popularity and coolness. I found out that I was the quiet one, so I attempted not to be. I tried to fit in, be fun, and appear confident. I learned all of this at a very early age. Too early I think, because my self-consciousness developed.
Shortly after I started school I witnessed the first major fight between my parents that I vividly remember. It was very violent with even a little blood involved (my dad accidently cut his hand on the outside screen door of the apartment). No one became seriously hurt, but there was so much anger and yelling that I was rightfully scared for my mom’s life. I saw how my dad was angrier than my mom, and to me, that meant he could cause more damage. The police showed up and that ended things. My mom and I got into a car, drove away, and never returned.
My parents separated and would never be together as a couple again. That reality didn’t register in me back then. All I knew was that I lived with mom and saw dad occasionally. Mom and I moved into a red brick building and lived on the second floor of a dingy, yet fairly roomy, one-bedroom apartment. I was simply glad that I could still attend my school. I didn’t think much of my parents’ separation. I was having a grand old time with the wonders of life that I didn’t pay much attention to complicated or intense issues. My parents’ eventual divorce didn’t upset me either. I must have understood that they felt they were not compatible and that was okay.
I also met my first best friend during that time. She was at the bus stop between where I lived and my bus stop. Don’t ask why I went to a further bus stop initially, but after a few days, and after noticing her standing by herself (plus I didn’t care much for the kids at my bus stop), I decided to join her. It was more convenient and especially more fun, because we got along well. While passing the time waiting for the bus we made up games. The main one was drawing a large circle in the dirt at the end of the driveway and whoever saw the bus coming first would jump into the circle and get to be the first one to board the bus. Of course, we both knew approximately when the bus would be coming, so at a couple minutes before our necks would be cranked to the side looking for the front of the bus to appear from down the road. We fought over that circle and I don’t know how we settled it, besides possibly alternating every other day. The whole reason why we were competitive over the place in line, even though it was just the two of us, was because we were the second stop the bus made and whichever one of us got on first would get what we considered the best seat on the bus—the single seat in the way back; it was guaranteed every time. As kids the last thing we wanted was being cramped against the window side sitting with someone we don’t like, just because they insist, even though there are other seats available. That’s what was so great about the single seat. Plus, the back was where the cool kids sat. But, fighting over the best bus seat was fun in itself. We were laughing and having a good time playing the circle game.