My first day at school was on the 14th December - so I went to school, met some kids, helped pack up the classroom and went to the end of school concert.  Then I was sent home for six weeks of holidays.  Best first day ever!

 

I returned in the new year along with other kids born in late December and January to find myself in this new world of 'big school'.  Apparently on my first day of big school I kicked a fellow student in the balls … hard.  I plead the fifth and have no memory of this event.

 

The back story to this attack was that dad had stupidly told a child who took everything literally that if ever a boy was trying to hurt me or touch me that I should kick him in his soft parts. 

 

Was I attacked on my first day at school by some five-year-old hooligan?  Nope but he did try to forcefully remove me from the swing that I had been hogging for quite some.  I apparently took offence.

 

The lesson about “soft parts” was then repeated to me but with a lot more detail as to what was OK and what was not.  I think I understood better the second time round because no other boys were damaged from that point on, well not in their soft parts anyway.

 

After my first term at big school I arrived home with my first report card.  It said helpful things like “is beginning to sound out letters” and “speaks up in class”.

 

Up until that point however I think I was used to being told that I was wonderful and of course I had my crew across the road who adored me.  I had built a house after all!

 

Even my kindergarten teacher cherished me (because I think I was the weirdest kid she ever taught).  When my dad died, I was in my 40’s and she kindly sent me a condolence card and in it she reminded me of who she was. Like I could forget the majestic Mrs. Ferguson (or Ferg-a-da-son as I pronounced it).

 

I think the incredible thing is that out of the hundreds of kids she taught over her very long career as a kindergarten teacher she still remembered me.  Let’s just agree that I was unique and apparently memorable … to some at least.  I also think the fact that dad was a DJ on the breakfast show helped as well.

 

So, I come home with the report card and get Mum to read it out loud and then stood horrified realizing it didn’t say that I was the best child in the entire universe and then I promptly fell apart with tears, sobs and hiccups.

 

Mum says that she and dad took turns consoling me while the other one went into the kitchen to laugh. 

 

Is precocious the right word? Yes indeed.