30 in 30: Year 7

1995:

Dear Little One,

I'm not sure how much longer you're really going to abide me calling you "little one", but at age 7, I'm afraid the moniker still sticks.  I have to say though, you are growing up very quickly, and life is starting to pick up the pace.  After all, you're in 1st grade now -- actual numbers to designate what year of school you're in.  It's the big time, now. 

This may come as a shock to many who know you later in life, but you're actually pretty garbage at school at this age.  You kind of muck about when it comes to doing any actual homework, particularly math, and you are constantly getting into trouble for lack-of-personal-space reasons.  Needless to say, transitioning from constant play time to actual proper classroom activities is a bit of a hurdle for you.  But, you are a superstar when it comes to writing short stories, according to your student teacher (not everyone can write such a harrowing tale about a killer whale who is hated even by his own mother). 

This is also a year of some wild social interactions for you.  This year, a boy actual declares his crush for you.  Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaattttt.  He's a nice kid, kinda dopey, but very well meaning.  You play it pretty cool - a few stolen glances at lunch time, and poking each other during recess, but it starts getting way too serious too fast for you (he's giving you trinkets every day.  Every day.) and you call it quits at your dad's behest (yeah, that's a trend that will carry through life.)  Alas, you are but 7, and so your attempts to reject his affections are about as tactful as drill sergeant meeting a new recruit.  Later in life, he'll become a death metal singer with angst issues.  Naturally, you'll blame yourself, that despite your relationship only lasting three days, you were the catalyst for his blackened heart.

You also get into your first and only playground fight!  During a game of tag, a group of boys from another class will join you, uninvited, and begin picking on just you.  At first, it's just a few prods and pokes, but then they literally start corralling you and circling you like vultures.  You have a choice here, kiddo:  cower, or stand up for yourself.  And, to my everlasting pride, you tell yourself, "F*ck this," and you aim a pretty sharp kick at the ringleader, landing just shy of his family jewels.  I mean, with a last name like Beer Bomb, this guy is a natural born ass (yes, that is his actual name.  No, that's not how you spell it.)  The gang immediately scatters, and Beer Bomb freaks out and runs to tell the recess monitor on you.  And you know what - not only do you have your actual friends backing you up, you win the monitor's sympathy.  Rock on, little one. 

Standing up for yourself is scary, and trust me - it doesn't always work to your benefit.  You do it so rarely as you get older, the fire in your eye burning a little lower with each passing year.  But whether or not it ends up working in your favor, you have a right to let people know how you feel, and having a voice should be reward enough.  Chin up, little one. 

Hearts and Kisses,
You.