Don’t Cry Over Spilt Milk

Don’t Cry Over Spilt Milk

I have this short story committed to memory that still makes me cringe. It displays my remarkable ability of going out of my way to embarrass myself. I took advantage of everything school had to offer, including the food and beverage.

Don’t Cry Over Spilt Milk

Oh, blunderbuss! I had made a mess. I had spilt my six ounce carton of milk onto the lunchroom table, and, as I recount, messes were my best friend forever.

“No worries. I cleaned up after myself,” I told my kindergarten teacher, as she marched over to investigate the four foot huddle clustered about me, like we were smoking a pack of cigarettes.

“I want you to sit down and show the lunchroom how you cleaned up that milk,” my teacher denounced. If I did not line up with her wishy washy approach, she threatened time out punishment — apart. My mouth went dry and I wanted to zip my lips.

My simple self had to  practice some social engagement skills while I stood there before my peers, so I sang a little jingle while I showed off my muscles,”Milk, milk, milk, drink that milk, milk, milk, and get strong.”

That song captured both the joy and sorrow of my mixed up behavior as I stuck out my tongue and licked up that milk, cleaner than it was before, like the morning chalkboard lesson on exploration I mindlessly wiped away. In addition to sophistication, lucky for me, I learned to read and write.

§tacy §wenney