Fudgy Chocolate Cherry Seed Cycling Balls (nut & coconut free)

I fumble the glue pot, so the spreader stays inexplicably wedged between my chubby fingers while the sticky mass of PVA travels towards my toes. And worse, the classroom’s corner story-time carpet.

My eyes screw up so that I can’t see the inevitable: the pot explodes child-safe adhesive all over the butt-worn carpeting, like a pie plummeting onto the pavement from grown-up heights.

I hold my breath and squint, one-eyed, through the frames of my splotchy glasses. Yup, it’s as bad as I thought. The classroom takes a collective breath as all eyes turn to teacher.

A pre-emptive “I’m so sorry!” makes its way out of my mouth and then I realize through my bubble of embarrassment that she’s… yelling?

Screaming, would be more like. And I know I should be listening as she waves her hands widely and lets loose as though I did this on purpose. But instead my brain shuts down as the shame of her response wraps its way around my face like a too-tight scarf.

The next thing I know, my eight year old legs are powering me back to my desk. I sweep up the plastic box – still baby wipe stinky – and stuff as much stationary in there as I can. My fingers are shaking with what I’ll later know is the kind of indignant anger that I will find it impossible to summon as an adult.

I snap, pressing down on Pampers’ embossed farm animals. And I stomp with all my eight year old might out of the classroom. I pound through the ground floor hall, down the corridor, through yet-another door that someone should probably be watching and, finally, out into the playground.

My house sits at the end of the street, so I can practically see my father’s un-apologetically sunshine-hued front door from here. I tuck my case to my chest and head home. Because a teacher is definitely not supposed to shout at me. I know that for sure.

The flaw in my plan is obvious as soon as I reach the door and ring the bell. My parents are, predictably for a week day, at work. And I don’t have a key. Because, you know, I’m eight.

So I slap the damn pencil case to the stoop and circle the neighborhood, cross an enormous busy road – carefully, at the zebra crossing, duh – and announce loudly inside the office: “MUUUUUUUUUUM! MRS A WAS MEAN TO ME!”

At which point, the screaming starts. I look around at the commotion enveloping me. Man, adults are weird. All I wanna do is go home.

It occurs to me, almost 30 years later, that I had a stronger sense of self then than I did for most of my adult life that would follow. I like to remember that somewhere inside me still is that little girl who knew what she was worth & how she should be spoken to. Especially, and most of all, by herself.

Looking for more seed cycling stuff?

• Fig Tahini Seed Cycling Energy Balls (luteal phase)
• Blackberry Blueberry Seed Cycling Smoothie (follicular phase)
• Strawberry Sunflower Seed Cycling Smoothie (luteal phase)

 

Print