A Curious Girl: Six years old.

Ugh, I had a weird and horrible dream last night. I can't remember much of it, but for some reason I had to go back to a class with my teacher in the second year of primary school, Mrs. C, from when I was six. In real life, this would be really silly, but I promise you, it didn't feel like that - it wasn't like I was surrounded by little six year olds, or even that I was six myself - not really. As if, somehow, she viewed me as six, even though I had my eighteen year old mind, and for some reason was doing A-levels in parallel with attending this class.

She asked someone called Jennifer for something. Or Jessica - she seemed to get mixed up. Eventually I realised she actually meant me, so I handed it to her, and said, slightly offended, 'My name's Helen, not Jennifer.' She went ballistic and yelled something like, 'You're wasting my time!' and then she fiddled with a calculator, showed me some large number, and said, 'This is how much of my time you've wasted over the years.'

But for some reason, I was going to have to go through her class all over again - and the whole of the school years after that, like being caught in some horrible time loop. For some reason, in the dream, the age difference wasn't an issue - I suppose the point being was that I would have to relive that time. In many ways, I haven't changed from the six-year-old - I've just grown up. Of course, naturally I have changed in many important ways - I know Jesus, I'm more confident, I understand my own talents. But when I think back to my memories, it doesn't seem like someone else - it's still me, I can still remember how I felt and why I felt it. I know she wrote nice comments on some of my work, and I know I occasionally went to see the headmaster to get stickers for doing well. But most of my memories of that class are horrible. I used to think that Year 5 was my worst year - but it wasn't, I might have done badly on maths, which I had been top in the year before, I might have spent the first month thinking the teacher hated my guts but I grew to like her, and she me, and whilst I spent a lot of break times staying in doing work, it really wasn't the end of the world. I remember being so proud of my artwork, and I also remember that she could be a very good teacher, although my time had its ups and downs. Now I think about it, my year as a 'middle infant' was definitely the worst. When I saw my Year 5 teacher again, I made a jokey remark about never having done any work in her class, and she'd smiled. I admired her so much for a particular lesson she taught us about discrimination, and although I hadn't been the best of pupils, we got on.

When I saw Mrs. C again, I was actually frightened. I can't believe that, it sounds so silly. But it's true, I was. I was meant to be helping out with her class - and although I had a fun time, she would tell me I had to go a little faster and it made me panic. I was always so behind in her class, in everything it seemed. I can't remember much of what she said to me, except for 'Always in the wrong place at the wrong time' (that actually makes me want to cry, how silly!), she once called me out of a story time to go do some comprehension work we'd been doing in a special group, saying something like, 'Why don't you listen?' (I assume I'd missed a couple of sessions due to my famous ability to be completely oblivious to the announcement that I had to go out), 'Still slow, Helen? I thought you'd be getting your rollerskates on now you're in Year 3'. Oh yes, and when I was helping out with her class when I was aged 16, she said, 'You've been an absolute star.' That would have been nicer without the following nightmare a couple of weeks later when she remembered that I never did anything right.

I also remember her telling someone, a boy he was telling off, 'My class finished all their work. Helen finished last.' At the time, I remember it sounded like, 'Well, even Helen managed to finish. That makes you a very naughty person, if even Helen finished.' My first ever lesson with her, I took so long writing the date on a piece of work she got frustrated, wrote the title and told me to get on with it. I also got chicken pox when I was in her class! :) My birthday I spent mostly staying in, finishing work. I was so ashamed, so miserable!! Usually it rains on my birthday - I remember Stephen telling me that it can't have rained every single birthday I've ever had, because the day he and Clive and Nicky and Yvonne moved into this house was the date of my birthday, he remembered, and it didn't rain. I wonder if it was that birthday - I wouldn't have had much time to notice it not raining.

It wasn't completely her fault - it was just a horrible, horrible year. I was slow finishing my work, I made her frustrated. It was a bleak time, pre-Jesus, pre-reading Phil 4:13, pre-writing talents, pre-being the intelligent child, pre-being confident in myself. And I dreamt that I had to go back to that...

I really should finish this soon - I have to go give blood! But I'm not always in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm not too slow and I'm not stupid. There is so much more to who I am than whether I finish my work on time, and God's plans for me are more likely to utilise my talents for talking in class ;-) I'm not that six year old any more. And I refuse to go back to that.

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