Anticipation dropped like a grand piano out of three-story window.  Eager excitement at finally beginning my educational

experience scattered like a flock of birds once swarmed greedily around a French fry after hearing the squeal of breaks—only

to be replaced with a body gulping terror exaggerated in my tender age.

        I was three.  And it was huge.  A sweet looking little church from the side of the road, Woods Chapel suddenly seemed a

good six times the size of the Kingdome in Seattle.  What was this . . . place my parents had decided to enroll me in?  For

one of a rare few (in my grown up age of three and a half) who did not yet possess the confidence to conquer the world, it,

quite simply, petrified me.

        Going down hill from fabulous to horrendous at an abnormally fast pace, my great day was ending up similar to the kind of

“nightmares” the Adventures in Odyssey characters find themselves plagued with from episode to episode.

        Nonetheless—following a great deal of cajoling—I consented to meeting my new teacher, Ms. Bonnie Rueben.  Not,

however, without my blue and red plastic sleeping mat, lunch box, and rather worn Raggedy Ann and Andy pillow clutched

in a death grip close to my heart. Strangely enough, I felt better, more prepared to face the world with familiar things covering

me from all sides.

        “Hi there!  I’m going to be your teacher, Ms. Rueben. You must be Amy?” Too traumatized to answer, my face remained

half-buried in the material of my mom’s shorts. “Well, dear,” the smiley-faced woman made another attempt to

connect, “We’ve a basket right over here where you can set your things while we work at the tables. And then when we have

rest time and lunch, you can get your lunch box and other things.”

        Her attention then demanded elsewhere, my mom nudged me in the direction of my brand spanking new blue plastic

Rubbermaid basket, the one with my name written across the bottom in bright red permanent marker.  “Let’s go put

your things in your basket,” she suggested, attempting to make me feel more comfortable in the new schoolroom surroundings.

        Feeling trapped, I followed her.  After all, if she moved and I stayed, I would no longer have something to hide behind.

Slowly, slowly I relinquished part of my cherished belongings to the space set aside for me to call my own.

        “Oh, A.., look over there!” my mom suddenly pointed out.  “Everyone’s starting to color pictures at the table.  Why don’t

you go sit with them?”  I felt betrayed.  She was tempting me.  She knew I loved to color, to draw pictures.  How  could she?

        The next few minutes continued on in the same way until finally she managed to somehow get me over to the short, yellow

topped “craft center” where most of the other kids had busied themselves with coloring pictures of their moms

and dads and sisters and brothers and pets.  I had no animals to draw about, so I settled to start a picture of a very original

pink flower.  I became caught up in my work after that, enough to not notice when my mom started scooting back a little

more and a little more.  When I glanced and saw her almost slip out the door, panic gripped my heart with a cold chill.  I ran

after her, my newest creation forgotten as I clung to her legs as one might cling to a tree during a tornado.  She couldn’t leave

me.  She just couldn’t.  I would never last alone.

        “I’ll be back in a little while to pick you up,” she promised, “and then you can tell me all about the special things you did

while you were here.  Just think of all the fun you’ll have.”

        A big fat tear welled in my eye and splashed down my cheek. “Mommy…”

        “Sweetheart, Ms. Rueben’s going to hold you for a bit now and help you get to know the other kids.  I’ll be back in a

little while to get you, all right?”  Leaving a quick kiss over the small scar on my forehead, she left me in the arms of my new

teacher.  I peered over the unfamiliar woman’s shoulder, depression sweeping over me as I watched my beloved mother walk

away in a most final of final seeming moments.

        I sobbed bitter tears for the first thirty minutes of the half-day session.

        Next day followed much like the first, and the next, followed by the next, and the next, until almost two torturous weeks

had passed.  My mom, a former public school teacher, did not quite know what to make of it all.  And while agonizing over

how to handle it, she endured patronizing attitudes.  One day she left the school’s number with the message for my dad that he

might be called.  The co-worker made the snide remark: “Oh, now, all children go through these kind of phases.  She’ll be

okay.”  She knew that some children cried in new situations like the one that I had recently entered, but it normally did not last

beyond the first couple of days.  So why exactly did I struggle with it so?

        When it did not get better and I remained consistent in teary-eyed pleas to stay at home, she thought some things over and

came to a decision; one that lead to a rather pivotal moment during those first weeks of my year at Woods Chapel.

        It came up in the evening—a little while before I went to bed.  I was chatting happily away with my mom and somehow,

amidst it all, we ended up broaching the subject of preschool.  I had come not to like that one much . . . but it was not as bad

as I had wondered if it would be.  In fact, it turned out to be a most important conversation between the two of us.  I felt quite

grown up when we finished.

        “If you’re sure you’d really not like to go to Woods Chapel anymore, then I can teach you at home like I do A...  Would

you like to do that?”  She already home-schooled my sister and realized that it would not difficult to teach me as well.

        It should have been like coming out into the living room on Christmas morning and seeing a room full of presents (well, not

full).  But oddly enough, I said nothing.  I had made one especially good friend and each day after I managed to dry my tears,

we always had a jolly good time together.

        “If you think that’s what you would want to do, I’ll speak to Ms. Rueben after class tomorrow about you stopping after

this week is through,” she continued.

        I contemplated it for a long moment, then presented my own question with the sort of troubled expression only

three-year-olds seem to manage. “Will I still get to see K...?”  Then, as if it had been a rhetorical one, I answered it, “If I don’t

keep going, then I won’t get to see her as much.”  I would not get to see her, not even on Sundays because she went a different

church.

        Her answer was honest, “Well . . . probably not very often, at least.”

        My hand came to my chin in a thoughtful slightly revised version of a gesture I had acquired from observing older, more

grown up people.  Decisions, decisions. I contemplated my options again for a couple of days while I went about the usual

routine.  It was a lot to think about.  What should I choose?

        In the end, I made the predilection to stick it out so I could be with my new friend (the building really was not that big).

And surprisingly enough, after I came to that ground disturbing revelation, I never cried another tear while I attended

class there.  As a further result, K... and I became practically inseparable throughout preschool (and in fact, she kept me from

ending up as a preschool dropout).  My teacher even commented one time that we two had “connected with each other the

most out of all the kids in group,” where the others had kept a bit more to themselves—played more independently.

Unfortunately, when she started at a new school, our paths did not cross much afterwards; but I know I will not forget her.

        All it well that ends well, though, I suppose . . . even if it did end up as a rather tragic beginning to the preschool

experience.