I CAN NOT GET THIS MEMORY OUT OF MY HEAD...

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This memory has been banging around in my cranium for about a week, and I can't seem to shake it.  So, I'll just thrash it out here, and offer it up as a question to folks my age, or older (or even younger if you've got some insight). 


It was September, 1965, and Andy was excited!  I was getting ready for my first day of elementary school.  

Now, by way of background, I have an older sister, and an older brother that were old hands at elementary school already.  And, I could already read cursive writing when I started first grade.  Momma taught me all that beforehand.  


I had just gathered all my things for my first day of  "real school," stuffing all my school supplies in my Bozo The Clown book satchel (yes...Momma bought me a Bozo The Clown book satchel which made me feel extremely retarded), when Momma started in.


It went something like this:

Momma:  Now, Andy you know that Mrs. Mac (her real name was Mrs. MacDowell...I had known her my whole life) is your bus driver.  And, what Bus Number do you ride?


Me:  Bus #33.


Momma:  That's right, Andy!  It's Bus #33, and who is your bus driver?


Me:  Mrs. Mac.


Momma:  That's right, Andy!  Now, don't forget that it's Mrs. Mac, and it's Bus #33.

Now, how hard is it to remember that the bus that stops right in front of your house, being driven by Mrs. MacDowell (who you've known your whole life) is the one you get on?  I mean, especially since you've got two older siblings standing right there with you?  Duh.

Anyway, I'm all excited to get out there in to real life at elementary school, and wait with my older siblings for Bus #33 (even though I feel retarded because of the Bozo The Clown book satchel), and Momma calls me back from walking out the door with an "Andy, come back here."

Dutifully, I come back to Momma who is now down on one knee.  She spits into a Kleenex, and wipes the toast crumbs from my face, and tells me she hopes I have a great day.  Then, she takes a piece of note paper, and pins it on my shirt.

Really...my Momma pins a note on my shirt with a safety pin, and gives me a kiss on the cheek.  So, feeling totally retarded I head down our long driveway to stand with my brother and sister to wait for Bus #33.  Of course, my older brother JUST HAD to make sport of the fact that Momma had pinned a note on my shirt.  My dear Sister (always the protector) punched him in the arm, and told him to shut up.  Which he did, because she punches really hard...then, and now.


Well, Bus #33 finally got there, and I miraculously made it all the way to Mrs. Haynes first grade class.  But on the way to school I read the note and thought about throwing it away, or just wadding it up and eating it like some super secret spy.  But, I knew that Momma would ask Mrs. Haynes later on (it sucks when your folks know EVERYBODY in town...and ALL of your first 6 years of school teachers).


The note was written in Momma's perfect cursive handwriting that she had taught me how to read.  It went pretty well like this:

Hi Jean!

Please make sure that Andy gets on Bus #33 after school.  It's Mrs. MacDowell's bus.

This is his first day of school, and I want to make sure that he doesn't get confused, and get on the wrong bus.  And, be sure to call me if you need any help.  I am one of your Room Mothers this year, so if there is anything I can do to help, please let me know.

Thanks,

Anne

Man...did I feel retarded!  I mean, I had probably told Momma at least a dozen times that I knew to get on Bus #33, and I could already read cursive writing, and everything...but here I walk in...on the first day of school with a note pinned to my shirt.


I think that should be outlawed.  Heck, it may have been by now.  It might be illegal to carry a safety pin on to weapon-free zones like schools now.


But, as I'm writing all of this down I wonder if God is trying to tell me something by keeping this memory front and center.  Maybe I fall in that same trap as a parent.  Maybe my love, and protectiveness (is that a word?) for my children causes me to pin notes on them that make them feel retarded.

Hey...I do have #2 son back home, working on finding his way in life.  And, I do have #1 son about to deploy to Iraq.  And, I do have #4 son struggling to "break out" in a lot of ways.


Maybe they are far more prepared for catching the bus, and navigating life than I realize.  Maybe I've put them through the same kind of embarrassment by my words and actions...all with loving motive, mind you.


Dunno.


So, let me just ask the question more simply (now that I've half-way figured out why this memory won't go sit in the back of Bus #33)...Did your Momma ever pin a note on your shirt?


Or, was it just me?