Shirt Ripping Guilt
My memory of preschool is pretty cloudy, but what I can remember tells me it was spectacular. We had nap time, reading time, arts and crafts, and recess (which lasted all day). I remember painting with a smock, playing in the sandbox, learning the words to “Baby Bumblebee,” and a host of other core experiences essential for a young child. It was a fantastic place to learn, but there was one thing that could ruin my day.
My teacher, Mrs. Johnson, was one of the nicest people ever. When I got into trouble, she would give me life lessons before sticking my nose in a corner, and was very patient with the number of times I needed to be “taught” something before I “learned” it. However, I never saw myself as deserving of punishment and would get very upset even when I was responsible for any wrongdoing. I have trouble remembering all the times Mrs. Johnson raised her voice at me, but I often found myself in timeout.
Despite the frequency of my transgressions, I didn’t really slow down, nor did I get used to the guilt and sadness of being disciplined. Instead, I tried to avoid being punished by hiding the broken toys, lying about the mean things I said, or pushing the blame onto someone else entirely. Most of the time, my misdeeds were discovered anyways, but even when I “got away with it,” I was left with a feeling of immense guilt. I would like to chalk this behavior up to “being a kid,” but the truth is that the other kids in my school were kind. They understood that their actions had consequences. They knew that when bad things happened, they could learn from them and then avoid doing them in the future. They were thinking about others: I was just a selfish numbskull.
Which leads us to the very first bad thing I remember doing to someone else. It was a normal preschool day in 1996, and my class was preparing for arts and crafts after lunch. Filled with a wonderful PB&J sandwich, I sat down at the table next to my buddy Ken, and started using the small metal scissors to cut strips of newspaper. It was paper mâché day, and we were tasked with making replicas of ourselves. Creating a paper clone seems like it could be pretty trippy for a four year old, but I was genuinely excited. I had been dreaming of this all week, hoping magic would somehow infuse my inanimate twin with a soul. I imagined that if I made it look exactly like me and dressed it in my clothes, it would actually spring into action like some demented childhood Frosty the Snowman. Honestly, it still sounds pretty cool.
I didn’t make it very far. While cutting the many strips of paper, my overexcited brain stopped paying attention to the activity in front of me, and my hands went on a quite erratic autopilot. Somehow, I maneuvered the scissors in such a way that I ripped a hole in my own shirt. At first, the hole was almost imperceptible–I could probably have worn the shirt for weeks without anyone noticing. But, being an irritating child, I played with it until the hole soon became impossible to ignore. By the time Mrs. Johnson noticed, half of my torso was exposed. I was in trouble.
An MRI would show that my brain activity was off the charts trying to calculate the punishment and consequences of my actions. I came to the conclusion that the only way out was to blame someone else. I was led into the “interrogation room” to determine the cause of my destroyed clothing, ready to present my fake explanation. Through tears, I told my teacher that Ken, who I had been sitting next to, was jealous of my “cool” shirt, and cut it. When he realized it wasn’t noticeable, he tore it. Wow. I was awful. Mrs. Johnson went out to get Ken, and sat us side by side. From the look on his face, she had already scolded him as well. I was completely guilt-ridden. Given the chance to tell the truth, I admitted that I had cut my own shirt, and that I was the worst person in the world for blaming my friend.
I don’t even remember being put in timeout, or my parents punishing me for it. What I do remember is how guilty I felt for the way I blamed Ken, who had nothing to do with it, and that our friendship never recovered. More than twenty years later, I still remember this lesson. Mrs. Johnson, thanks for talking things through. And Ken, I’m still sorry for throwing you (wrongfully) under the bus.
Anyways, here is my recipe for a PB&J.
Ingredients:
Ok, I get it. You already know how to make a PB&J. That's great! Here’s my way of doing it, which is probably close to, but not exactly the same, as your way. Maybe, just maybe, there is still something to learn. Yeesh.
2 slices Whole Wheat Bread
1 Jar Strawberry Jam
1 Jar Skippy Peanut Butter
Equipment:
The good news is, you have everything you need! Isn’t this a nice change of pace, rather than whipping cream in a stand mixer, or using eleven bowls to make one pizza, or… enough! Just a nice, relaxing, nostalgic PB&J. You’re welcome.
Plate
Spoon
Active prep total: 5 minutes
Clean up: 5 minutes
Remember, take this one slow. It still won’t take much time, but how you do anything is how you do everything. You are about to combine peanut butter and jelly in holy matrimony in such a way that your mouth will go to heaven. Did you forget? Well then here’s a delicious reminder.
Instructions:
Get two slices of bread and place them on a plate. Come on, you knew that.
Get a heaping spoonful of peanut butter out of the jar, and spread it on the face of one slice of bread so that you can’t see any of the airy texture. This ensures you are getting enough peanut butter in each bite.
Get a heaping spoonful of jelly out of the jar, and spread it on the face of the other slice of bread. The ratio of peanut butter to jelly is important, and much experimentation will reveal that you want just a bit more jelly than peanut butter to help deal with the peanut butter stickiness. If your ratio is on point, you won’t even need a glass of milk to wash it down. I may be an idiot, but I’m a scientific idiot.
Close your eyes, and take a deep breath. Remember what it was like to put your book bag in a cubby, to sit at a low table in a tiny chair, to listen to a guest reader while “criss cross applesauce.” This PB&J is about to take you back to school.
Open your eyes. Open your eyes. I think you get it.
This is the perfect combination. The bread feels like home, the peanut butter reminds you of sitting on the playground, and the jelly comes in and washes away the stickiness of your terrible childhood decisions. It’s not only a perfect food in its simplicity, but in the lessons it teaches us about how to move on with our lives. We can only dwell on the excess peanut butter for so long, but eventually it's time to wash your hands. Or, if you didn’t understand the metaphor, move on. It’s time to forgive your actions from two decades ago, and maybe ask Ken if that’s why you stopped being friends. Maybe it was all the trash-talking you did to him in elementary school. Whatever it may be, learn what you can, and try to do better in the future. That’s what jelly would want.
