All I ever really needed to know, I learned in kindergarten -- Robert Fulghum.

When my teacher gave me a copy of this book last fall, I literally laughed in his face. We were in the middle of a leadership course, and he proposed that most people's problems could be solved by the simple lessons they learned in the kindergarten classroom.

Yeah, right. The only thing I mastered at Jefferson Elementary Center was how to whip rubber bands at the back of Virgil Rudzinski's head because he said my teeth were so huge, that Evil Knievel wanted to jump my mouth.

"This is what I learned: Take a nap every afternoon."

Every student in my kindergarten class was asked to bring in a blanket for the required rest period. My classmates proudly displayed pink comforters and crocheted afghans. I dragged in a pea green piece of carpet.

My mother said it was practical. My classmates hooted and hollered and said my mother was probably the Jolly Green Giant.

And yet, every time Mrs. Davidson screamed, "Rest Period," I'd run to that pathetic piece of carpet, plop my thumb in my mouth and dream of a better world -- one which didn't contain an ingrate like Virgil.

It's funny. I've forgotten how to rest, relax, and make time for myself.

Sometimes, I think my life resembles an out-of-control merry go round. The pace keeps quickening until the system breaks down. Maybe it's time to hit the brakes for a while, huh?

"Clean up your own mess."

One morning, we decided to play cowboys and Indians before Mrs. Davidson came to class. In a surprising act of kindness, Virgil said I could be his number one squaw. Kind of like the Lone Ranger and Tonto, I thought.

Wrong. He told me since I was his main squaw, I would have to collect firewood, fix his meals and wash his clothes. Had I been smarter, I would have hauled his mangy little body into Judge Wopner's "Divorce Court."

Instead, I threw the history pointer at him, threatening to scalp his head if he didn't leave me alone. Unfortunately, I nearly scalped the janitor who was walking by with his water bucket and damp mop. The container dropped from his hands and the water spilled all over the floor.

All of us hid behind Mrs. Davidson's desk as he mopped up the mess. I was scared, but worse yet, I felt extremely guilty. So, I stood up and said, "I was the one who threw the pointer. I'm sorry I made such a mess."

Maybe that sounds like something straight out of "Leave it to Beaver," but I wish I could see more of those moments today.

Too many times in my life, I've botched something or neglected to take responsibility for a situation, leaving the sloppy seconds for the next person who comes along. Perhaps I should start owning up to the mistakes I make.

"Live a balanced life. Learn some and think some. Draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some."

That's something I have to say in favor of kindergarten. It always was interesting. Always an adventure.

One day, an art teacher came in from the neighboring high school. She said we were going to work with rubber cement.

Virgil came up with the bright idea that the combination of rubber cement and super glue would be absolutely disastrous. So, when the teacher wasn't looking, he glued her chair to the floor.

Meanwhile, the rest of us were rolling rubber cement balls and tossing them up to the ceiling. The whole classroom resembled something straight out of Cocoon.

Granted, we were monsters. But we were allowed to act silly. We were only kids.

Isn't it strange kids have the greatest leeway for ridiculous behavior because of their age?

As children, we laughed and giggled for hours upon end. We played with water guns, Barbie dolls, slinkies and play dough. We even got away with hugging our friends and holding their hands whenever we lined up to go to the bathroom, because we were taught to believe in the buddy system.

Something changed. We grew up. Or at least we were told to grow up because the real world doesn't play games. It plays hard ball. And besides, who needs cement balls to release a lot of pent-up energy and frustration? That's why we have the psychiatrist's couch.

Something tells me my teacher wasn't too off base, when he said we learned some of our most important lessons as children. It makes me think about the book's ending:

"Think of what a better world it would be if we all -- the whole world -- had cookies and milk about 3 p.m. every afternoon and then lay down with our blankets for a nap. Or if we had a basic policy in our nation and other nations to always put things back where we found them and clean up our own messes. And it is still true, no matter how old you are, when you go out into the world, it is best to hold hands and stick together."