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Once upon a time I was in high school. I took a pottery 1 class as an elective because I needed an art credit and thought that it might be fun. I was wrong about that. I was really incredibly bad at pottery. I could not keep the freaking clay centered and everything I made looked like a stupid lump of ugly crap.
Just kidding. I bet you didn’t do any of the weird shit that I did!
Middle school is kind of a joke. Middle school is where you send those awful prepubescent gremlins who are in the most awkward and unpleasant phase of their lives. Give them their own special school to destroy so they don’t bother cute little children or stupid but slightly less awkward teenagers. Nothing you do in middle school matters. Â Nobody cares what kind of grades you got or how often you were in detention. Nobody cares what you were like at all. You were stupid. Everyone was terrible. It was the worst.
In case you hadn’t noticed, I have posted at least 2 stories about times I acquired strange pets without considering the consequences and have promised more.
I have a legitimate animal problem. If I see an creature, I want to care for it. I want it to come home and live with me forever and I start daydreaming about the wonderful life my bizarre animals and I will live together. It occurred to me when writing about my elementary school that there is a pretty obvious explanation for what I have deemed my “animal problem.”
My mom was a Montessori teacher who started a new job at this particular school about a year or so after my family had moved to Minnesota for my dad’s job. She decided it would be a good idea for my brothers and I to attend the school she worked at so she could drive us to and from school and be close to us throughout the day. We were all young when we started here. I was entering 2nd grade with my younger brothers entering kindergarten and preschool respectively. I had gone to a Montessori preschool when we lived in Milwaukee and loved it. I didn’t have a problem with the public school I was attending except that they wouldn’t let me write in cursive “because we don’t do that until 4th grade,” but this move certainly made sense.
I was referred to a pediatric rheumatologist who would oversee my care for the next year or so. She explained this condition to me. It was an autoimmune disease that caused (among other symptoms) pain, swelling, and stiffness in my joints. I remember being confused. I remember asking my parents if I was allowed to tell my friends at school about my diagnosis. I know I didn’t understand the idea that there were illnesses from which you would not recover… because they had no cure.
Stories of My Life 