I’m always amazed by the mindless and monotonous things that can trigger memories. The random ones you didn’t even know were stored in your brain anymore, but are suddenly so vivid, it’s like you’re back there. I have a penchant for remembering weird things as it is; it’s why I’m the champ of Pop Culture Trivial Pursuit and why being a History major came so naturally to me. And yet I still manage to weird myself out a little bit.
The other morning was just like every other weekday morning. I set four different alarms (three on my phone, one actual alarm clock), hit snooze repeatedly on all of them. After the first alarm, I’m usually awake, but there’s a biiiig difference between being awake and actually doing anything about getting out of bed. I showered, got dressed, started systematically frying my hair with a blow-dryer and a flat iron, and blah blah normal lady morning routine. The only thing different is that I had a wicked craving for a glass of milk. So, you know, I had one. And something about staring at a god damn glass of milk on my kitchen counter sent me right back to kindergarten.
The place I went for daycare and preschool when I was a tiny thing was called St. Luke’s, and it extended all the way to kindergarten. So instead of taking me out of the warm and fuzzy beacon of familiarity that was St. Luke’s and sending me to Snowden (where my brothers were) for kindergarten, my mom kept me where I was. Sidebar: When I went to Snowden the next year for first grade, it was the only year Brad, Adam and I ever were all at the same school: me in first, Adam in fifth, Brad in eighth. Aaaand I’m pretty sure that fact is only interesting to me. But I digress! At St. Luke’s the kindergarteners were the top dogs, the big kids on the playground. We had school in the morning (which I loved) and an optional daycare/afterschool program in the afternoon/evening. As the youngest child of two working parents in the middle of a divorce, I stayed all day.
The bridge between the morning and afternoon portions was, obviously, LUNCH. Followed by nap time. To this day I can’t decide which of these I hated more at the time. St. Luke’s was nice enough to provide lunch for all the kids every single day, serving standard things like lasagna and fish sticks and jello and, much to my constant dismay, a wide array of canned vegetables. The caveat? Our caretakers were going to make damn sure we actually ate the food they gave us. And drank the milk that they served with every meal.
Now, to say that tiny Kristin was a picky eater might be the understatement of a lifetime. As a stubborn six-year-old, I had a refined palate that forbade me from ingesting anything that wasn’t made of Eggo waffles or chicken nuggets. I made special exceptions to my self-imposed diet for Hot Dog Wednesday and Fish Stick Friday, but that left three other days of the week to battle it out with various staff members regarding what they insisted I eat and what I knew just wasn’t going to happen. I wouldn’t say I was especially cantankerous and throwing hissyfit tantrums multiple times a week. No no, mine was a distinctly nonviolent protest. Flinging peas at my fellow students and shouting every curse word I’d overhead from my dad yelling at traffic was not my game. Instead, I did that thing every kid does and assumes that he or she invented — I pushed things around on my plate and rearranged everything so meticulously so that it looked like I just WENT TO TOWN on those vegetables. When that didn’t work, I’d put whatever god awful, poisonous thing they were making me eat in my mouth, chew it a few times, and spit it out into my napkin when I thought they weren’t looking. Most of the time, though, I just ate everything else on my plate and prayed that no one would notice the giant glob of untouched carrots so that I could have my gd pudding already.
Bless their hearts, the teachers were really patient. Some liked to bargain with me (“If you eat FIVE MORE PEAS, you can have a cookie!”), but one lady in particular took a harder approach. Julie was her name. Outside of lunchtime, Julie was as cool as an adult can be to a six-year-old. She was a part of the afternoon staff, so the bulk of her job was looking after us as we played with various toys (or ran around on the playground) until our parents picked us up. As fun as she was, Julie didn’t mess around — no one was allowed to say “shut up” to each other ever, and no one (namely: me) was allowed to leave the table and get ready for nap time until all the food was eaten and milk was imbibed.
One day in particular, Julie and I were engaged in the most epic battle of wills. Somehow I’d managed to choke down all of whatever we had for lunch that day, but I insisted on having none of my milk purely out of principal. I mean, really, I ate the green beans, Julie! What more do you want from me? I’M JUST ONE GIRL! Nevertheless, as the rest of my classmates got out the cots and placed them strategically around the room to get (or pretend to get) a little shuteye, Julie insisted that I stay seated at the table with my glorified Dixie Cup of milk until I finished it. The lights were turned out, the room was quiet and Julie situated herself at the teacher’s desk; I knew no one was sleeping. They were all STARING at me as I sat unmoving in my chair, determined to not drink that damn milk. Minutes went by, the milk got sourer and sourer, and I got more and more embarrassed that I was sticking out like a sore thumb. Classmates with cots adjacent to my table prison were hissing at me to just drink it already. In that moment, I hated Julie. Hated her for trying to poison me with milk that had gone bad by being out for too long (100% my doing) and for potentially ruining my reputation with my classmates (also my doing).
At least halfway through nap time, I gave in. I knocked back the entire glass of milk in one go. As I got up to show Julie my empty cup, my classmates, who weren’t even pretending to sleep anymore, actually cheered. I may have lost that particular battle of wills, but Julie was one hell of a contender; I was happy to give way to such a worthy opponent.
If I were a better storyteller, I would have some sort of smart conclusion or lesson that I have synthesized from looking back on that memory 20 years later. I can tell you that the idea of canned vegetables still makes me gag. And that every time my family gets together for a meal and I put anything green on my plate, people still gape and look at me like it’s a miracle that I’m eating something vaguely healthy. I like milk, though. Just don’t leave it on a table for 45 minutes and expect it to not taste like ass.