Blessed is the Peacemaker

Apple

    I started Kindergarten in August of 2004. My mom never had the opportunity nor the necessity to put me preschool, or even daycare for that matter. I was never sure as to why, but I've also never asked. I always just attributed it to her being a single mother on a very specific schedule combined with the fact that I was already performing at a pretty decent level for academic standards. Regardless, that meant  this would be my first real experience of being around this sort of randomized group of people my own age: that being five years old. It would also be my first real experience of what it would be like spending the majority of my day without my mom, or any family member at all. Given that we lived with my grandparents, I never truly had any understanding of what it meant to be on my own. Not that a five year old should necessarily be comfortably independent, but in terms of autonomy, I was severely lacking.

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    I have little to no recollection of the time period between when my dad went to prison and when I started school. My brain has more of something along the lines of juxtaposed memories of specific days combined with the pictures I've seen from them: a Barbie Swan Lake birthday party and the motel room we held it in, trips to Pensacola to see Disney on Ice and the expensive costumes purchased from the gift shop, going to work with my mom and watching PBS behind the jewelry counter, playing at my favorite park with the twisting slide for hours, and wanting a bob. I pretty much had it made, and the thought of any sort of change terrified me. Specifically, the thought of leaving my mom terrified me. I remember the fear that lingered over me knowing I would eventually have to start school, that I would no longer be able to eat Kid's Cuisines on the floor while my mom organized swimsuits at work, or sleep in her bed for as long as I wanted just to spend the day watching television with my grandma.
    Even more so, I remember the fear that would fill my little heart if I ever woke up and my mom wasn't in her bed next to me. Some days she would let me sleep while she took my brother to school, but almost every time I would wake up in a panic, wondering if she was gone forever. I remember one morning I woke up and didn't know where she was and started panicking because my moms car wasn't in the driveway and it was significantly later than when she would normally be home from dropping off my brother; I asked my grandma where she was and she just said, "She should've been back by now." I ran outside and looked around hoping to see her and it wasn't until then that she pulled into the driveway. I immediately started sobbing because I thought she had left me. When she saw me on the porch in my pajamas alone, she quickly got out of the car and held me; I didn't leave her side for that entire morning. I don't know why I had this irrational fear that something terrible would happen to my mom if I wasn't able to be with her at all times; that as if by some grace of the universe, nothing bad could happen to her if I was always there. I also had this weird irrational fear of her sleeping. Sometimes, she would doze off in one of the beach chairs at the surf shop she worked at, or she would simply be 'resting her eyes,' but when she would, the same fear would creep over me because I felt I had no way of knowing if she was okay. I refused to let her wear sleep masks to bed, or turn away from me, and when it eventually came time for me to sleep on my own, my grandma would have to sit with me until I was assuredly fully asleep.

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    Knowing this, you can understand how difficult my first day of school might have been for me, mentally. I threw up- and cried, a lot.

It wasn't until I met my teacher, that I started to calm down. Her name was Mrs. Taylor. According to my five year old recollection, she was incredibly tan with French tip acrylic nails, she had blue eyes complimented by dark blue eyeliner, and wore her bleached blonde hair at her shoulders with bangs. She always wore sandals and white capris with Dean Bozeman t- shirt, or maxi dress that reached her painted toes; you would never see her without jewelry on, and I'm weirdly certain she had fake boobs. She was like a second mother to me, her soft southern accent and patience with my anxiety made me feel safe. I cried every morning before school and every afternoon at nap time for the first half of the school year if I can remember correctly- my memory of this year gets a little hazy when I was diagnosed with asthma.
    From what I can remember, I never had any health issues up until I was five and given my mom's reaction to my first asthma attack, I don't think she ever suspected anything either. I remember waking up in a coughing fit and barely being able to breathe, only to begin to lose my ability to inhale or exhale altogether. Everything after that fades in and out, I'm just left with randomized glimpses of my blanket, the car ride, and the emergency room that still flash in my head. But part of me always wonders if I've made those up in an attempt to fill in the gaps. I do remember her being absolutely terrified. My attack was a really grounding experience for my mom, as a mom, more than anything. I'm not sure she had ever even heard of asthma before that night and then suddenly, I had something that required serious medical attention and precautions that could be life-threatening if handled incorrectly. But something more noteworthy is that with those precautions, came treatments.
    I had to start doing breathing treatments in the place of recess until everyone was sure another attack wouldn't happen. I had a clear silicone breathing mask in the shape of a triceratops head. With purple accents and bold eyes, it attached to the tube of a mini air compressor of sorts as well as a separate piece for the breathing solution; of which, you just put a few drops of into the specific tube and essentially breathe it in through the mask until it's completely gone. I can still remember it's distinct smell, humid vapor and vague taste. A key part of this whole ordeal was that it was around this time that my mom became a paraprofessional at my school, which allowed her to come do my treatments with me every afternoon. It brought me a lot of peace knowing she was there with me at school, even if she wasn't in my classroom at all times. Additionally, its also worth noting that the school I attended was for Pre-K through diplomacy, meaning my older brother was able to attend the same school as well. So yeah, things felt better.

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    My mom didn't work as a paraprofessional for very long. If I remember correctly, I don't even think she did for my entirety of the first grade. I'm assuming its purely because she eventually got, or maybe even just needed, better paying jobs; such as working for a cell-phone company and or just working retail at the mall. Regardless, this meant that my separation anxiety would become back into full swing by first grade and unfortunately, not dissipate until fourth grade. I didn't cry every day, but I might as well have. I could feel my antics becoming annoying or exhausting, but I couldn't help it; in fact that very underlying feeling only made me cry so much harder. I wanted so badly to be able to grow up and move past the sadness and fear that came with leaving my mom each morning. I no longer wanted to be a burden to her or my teachers, I didn't want to feel the eyes of my classmates on me as my teacher pulled me into the hallway to talk. But I was so helpless. I desperately wanted the feeling of independence my peers exuded by simply coming to school with dry, excited or even disinterested eyes. Instead, I would often be left standing in the breakfast line in the cafeteria wiping my nose on my sleeve and trying to calm my breathing.
   
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Getting dropped off before the bell was always the hardest. The way I wouldn't want to let go of her hand, and watched her walk past the windows getting further away from me until she was gone is still so vivid in my mind. I've never been good with goodbyes. I beg and plead and grasp for more time, more love, more understanding, more compassion - none of which feel like they ever come. I hate the way that sounds, but I hate the way it feels even more. I hate the feeling of grasping for something, anything, to keep a person exactly where they don't want to be.