Sorry

It's my parents for whom I feel most sorry when I look back over my childhood.

I was one weird kid.

Obviously, I should have been diagnosed with something, but in those days, before brain dysfunctions and behavioral disorders were discovered, there was only "regular" and "retarded" to choose from. Nowadays, children receive helpful diagnoses, followed by hugs. I went largely undiagnosed, followed by whoopins.

I lived in my own little world mostly, but at the oddest moments I would surface to run my mouth.

I said insulting things to adults. Adults. Nor did I gel with most children. I shake my head now. My poor parents. I regularly embarrassed them at church, yet they still had to take me home and feed me.

Though the embarrassments didn't just stop with church. I made sure their reputations as the parents of Stacey Dawn Henderson were known community-wide. For instance, the year I started first grade, there was a parent's night at the school. I took special care with my personal appearance, even combing my hair; a thing which never got combed unless my mother did it, causing her to eventually have it all whacked off due the constant tick-bearing tangles (because I was always standing on my head in the yard). I dressed myself in some sort of cherry-festooned get-up, pinned a colorful pin to my collar, and donned my church shoes. I was excited, but, apparently, forgetful.

When I arrived at the school with my father (mom had to work that night), I began to walk more slowly down the aisles, stopping at random desks while my father kept saying, "Stace, this is not your work. Where's your desk?" My teacher, Miss Lott, had to inform him that my desk was the one by itself against the wall. I had had to be moved away from the other children - because I wouldn't shut up.

And do you know what I thought after this humiliation had come to the fore?

"And I dressed up for this."

One Saturday afternoon, when my dad was lamenting the fact that Easter was not Christ-centered enough, I thought up a song on the spot to help make Easter a little more Christ-centered for him. It was sung to the tune of "Here Comes Peter Cottontail".

Here is my song:  "Here Comes Peter Jesus Taaaaiiillllll!".

Here is my Dad's opinion of that song: "Stacey!!!!!"

The real problem with that song is that I still sing it every Easter.

There was an evening, however, during my second-grade year that I brought home some sort of reading certificate, and my parents, wanting to see the extent to which this award was merited, handed me one of my dad's college-level psychology books. I fluidly read the words aloud without pausing or struggling over the big ones. I could see that they looked at each other over my head - I was a year younger than other second graders.

But again, woe to my parents, because I believe it was the last academic achievement I ever made.

Sorry, Mom and Dad, but at least you don't have to feed me anymore.