Pre-school Pearl

 

 

I was a lady’s man when I was little—like pre-school and pre-pre-school era little. I had a way with the girls my age, or so my mom says. My romantic track record since then hasn’t exactly supported her account of my history, but my mom has plenty of pictures to prove it—pictures mostly of me smooching the daughters of her friends.

Honestly, I don’t recall those kisses. The only ones I can remember where with a daycare honey that I’ll call the Puerto Rican Princess—mainly because I have no idea what her real name is. From my memory alone, she was my first kiss, my first bliss, and my first miss. Let me explain. 

The very first town I lived in was Des Plaines (which was fun trying to say as a kid who needed speech therapy), in the Chicago-land area. Both my parents worked, so, naturally, they put me in a concentrate camp of germs called daycare. From 7:30am-5pm, Monday through Friday, the strangers of that daycare raised me. It wasn’t that bad, really. I got to listen to soap operas during nap time, read some gory dinosaur books, and ate ants on a stick. Ronald McDonald even visited us (and no matter what anyone says—that was him! It wasn’t some look alike actor)!

The best part was recess. From my four-year-old eyes, the outdoor jungle gym was HUGE. There were slides, swings, and monkey bars. My favorite piece of equipment though was the sandbox underneath the tower. I guess it was the kiddy equivalent to the bar because that was where I met my Puerto Rican princess. I don’t know how things even got started between us, but I know that if I wasn’t running around, I was sitting in the sandbox necking her.

At this point, you may be wondering, “How do I know she was Puerto Rican?” Well for one, she told me. Then of course, when I would go home, I’d share my exploits with my parents. From there, my parents proceeded to joke that I had a Puerto Rican girlfriend and yada yada.

Like a scene from Romeo and Juliet though, my parents broke up the relationship. I had it all planned. I was already K-I-S-S-I-N-G under a tree (the tower was made of wood). Next would come love, then marriage, and a baby in the baby carriage! Unfortunately for me though, my parents crushed that dream. They selfishly decided to move to away to the suburbs for a bigger house or a better job—something irrelevant along those lines. Thus, the waters of my parents’ opportunities flushed out my first flame of romance. She wasn’t in tricycle distance, anymore, so I knew it wouldn’t work. We parted ways and…I never even got to get her number…

Who knows how life would have turned out had I stayed in Des Plaines? I could have been bilingual. I could have gone through middle school with a relationship almost as old as me. I could have charmed her all the way through public schooling together as BF & GF until she popped out a baby that was part Chinese, Polish, AND Puerto Rican. The potential and passion were there, but alas, I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. The Puerto Rican princess undoubtedly went on to be a queen, and I was left a title-less bachelor.

Lesson(s) learned:

·         You can’t help who you love…or how long you can stay at a day care.

·         Little love can still be big.

·         Losing love when you’re little can create a heartache of memories.

·         Pre-school romances can be the hardest ones to forget…and remember…

Who was your first romantic fling with and what happened?