Mothers and Fathers

Primary school was so much fun. There's hardly a day that goes by that I don't remember the sights, the smells, the scraped knees, and the slow torture of the small branches and leaves and grass that we would pull to shreds as we were allowed to daydream freely in fields during P.E when we didn't really give a shit. Yes, those were the days.

I was an only child, and as such, I enjoyed my own company. Also, I was a little eccentric and some of the other kids just didn't understand me. This is likely true in my adult life too, truth be told. But, when I felt like breaking out of my self reflective moments, I loved my fellow classmates. I loved school.

I attended a total of six primary schools, due to moving house and/or getting bored. Mum always let me choose my own schools, that, despite my own decisiveness, is something that I am very glad she allowed me to do. But there was one primary school that I spent an (almost) solid 4 years at. This is the school where I hold my fondest memories.

In Prep, I remember I was bored. All the other kids in my class were learning the alphabet and since I had been an avid reader since age 2, there was nothing for me to learn. I sat in the corner and perfected my autograph.

Grade One was filled with making paper people chains, and giggling at our teacher's last name. My teacher told my Mum that I was gifted, and suggested she buy me a book called 'The Annotated Ultimate Alphabet' - a surrealistic journey into the adult world by an artist who clearly never intended to reach a six year old audience. I became disruptive to my classmates due to boredom, and got my first taste of humble pie/humiliation when I was sent back to the Prep classroom for the entire afternoon.

Grade Two was what I call my 'silly' year. I was seven years old, and looking back now, it seems to be the year where everything childhood related can be traced back to. One day, our teacher wrote a bunch of words on the blackboard which we then had to draw the related picture. I got to the word 'truck' and I, point blank, could NOT remember what a truck was. When I asked my classmates for help, they laughed at me - my first taste of true isolation. Stressed, I began to cry, and my teacher explained to the class that it was normal to forget things sometimes. But when the boy who laughed the loudest at me spelt his own name wrong one day, I got my revenge. My friends Jack and Nick and I sat on the beanbags at the back of the class and laughed ourselves stupid at the ridiculous name we gave to a toy train. The name still makes me giggle stupidly to this day. I sometimes wonder if they remember it too. And if they don't, at least I'm upholding its ephemeral memory.

Grades Three and Four introduced my first role model outside of my own home - my teacher. Patient, kind, considerate and generous - she was everything that I wanted to be. Over two years, she encouraged my poetry and my writing. I was the first in the class to get my pen license. I tried so hard to have neat writing so my teacher would give me more stickers in my workbook. If I did really well, I got scented ones. My classmates and I used to play 'Mothers and Fathers' in the playground. All we needed was an empty fort, a Mum, a Dad, a couple of kids (always twins, and one was always the naughty one), and someone to play the dog. The game would begin with great enthusiasm for about 10 minutes before we would get bored and run in every direction. In Grade Four, I got my first camera - a 110. Me and two of my friends got them with a magazine in the school's book club. Book club's were the primary equivalent of ordering off of Amazon, and we loved when our books got delivered. In the space of an hour, we used all 24 exposures of our film inventing the silliest scenarios and faces to photograph. I still have those photos, and they still make me smile. When Marble Season came along, my friends and I would scour the oval for all the lost marbles that lay forgotten in the grass so that we could use them as collateral instead of sacrificing our favourites. None of us were any good at the game, but we loved the textures, the varieties, and the feel of a full and jangling marble pouch.

As the years go by, these memories are sure to fade, little by little, until they are gone. Until that day, I will continue to remember the little fragments, the happiness, the random moments, the fun moments. The dreams that were dreamed among the clouds, while sitting in the hopefully un-pooped in sandpit. The moments that are the building blocks of our characters. Every colour that we are was reflected in those colourful walls. And when no pictorial memories remain, the warmth and the energy will carry on until the end.