Spilt Milk
By Jenna Eads

The important thing to know is that Iím allergic to milk. Not lactose intolerant. Allergic. As in, very ill. Iíve had this allergy for as long as I can remember. Even Nacho Cheese Doritosô were too much for my sensitive system. So, why I even had a milk punch card is still unbeknownst to me.

Nineteen eighty-five finds me as a 3^rd grade student at a small private school in Eugene. I was a strong-willed, out-going, talkative, and very obedient student. I would like to say that my un-wavering obedience is what my teacher remembers me by. Unfortunately, there may be something else that first comes to her mind when reminiscing about the days I was in her class.

The day started out as any other day. We were all happy it was Friday and looking forward to the afternoon where we were going to work on our paper bag whales. My teacher, as she did each morning, took the hot lunch and milk count. Normally, as a cold lunch bringer, I did not participate in this morning ritual. Yet, on this ill-fated day, I ordered both hot lunch and milk. Looking back, I cannot tell you what possessed me to do such a thing. I was apparently confused by the whole lunch ordering system.

When lunch time came around, I realized my error and tried to give back the pint of milk delivered to my desk. The milk helper had no desire to get into a discussion with me about my allergy and inevitable outcome. Upon furthering my protest to the teacher, I quickly learned my mistake could not be undone. I was to drink what I had paid for. Wanting to remain ever obedient, I did as I was told.

The afternoon continued in a normal fashion. During the last recess, however, I began to feel the familiar rumblings that could only mean one thing. That milk, which had been so dutifully partaken of, had infiltrated my system. And as expected, my system was rebelling. I reported this to my teacher, who simply replied (as I now know most teachers would) with a nonchalant, ìSchoolís almost out. Youíll be fine.î

The last hour of school did not show any signs of ëbeing fineí. We were, as promised, working steadily on our paper bag creatures. I diligently worked on mine, trying to do whatever I needed to take my mind off of the ensuing eruptions within. I periodically reminded my teacher of my discomfort. It was beginning to become quite apparent that she was finding me to be quite an interruption to her reading aloud. I was eventually told to have a seat, relax, and put my head down. School was almost over. I tried following her advice. I sat this way and that, head up and head down. I was reaching the breaking point. I could no longer just sit there.

My teacher was still seated on her stool at the front of the classroom. My desk was, ironically, placed in the back right by the door. I gathered every ounce of courage, stood up and walked the endless aisle surrounded by desks to plea for sanctuary one last time. I took a deep breath, faced my teacher, and gathering as much strength as possible said, ìMrs. Bauer, I donít feelÖî And then my worst childhood fear was realized. Everything stopped. Everything that is, except my digestive system. There was my milk, regurgitated for all to see, meeting its final resting place on her shoes, the floor, and poor Travis Bradleyís desk.

I was finally allowed, nay, ordered to the nurseís office where I waited for my mother to come and save me from this nightmare. As I waited, my teacher came in to make sure I was okay. Her consoling advice being, ìNext time you know youíre going to be sick, go to the bathroom! You donít need to ask, just go!î Good to know. Eventually, my mother came and rescued me. To this day, pint-sized milk and I have never met again.