12-Year-Old Fraud

Because there is NOTHING going on in my life except a lot of grunting and panting and avoiding reaching for things while I wait for this little chubbily to make an appearance, I offer you this:

When I was 12 years old, my 7th grade english teacher, Mr. Hancock, assigned us the task of compiling an original book of poetry. I was pretty much the teacher's pet poster child in those days, loving nothing more than dazzling my various teachers with my maturity and (perceived) superior intellect. I lived for their praise and played the part beautifully... always going the extra mile, getting chosen for special projects and leadership positions, oozing with flattery and butt-kissing. You know the kind... you may have been one yourself. In which case, I salute you, because only those of us who fell into this category know the hard work and calculated dedication required for that kind of status.

My parents were proud of my accomplishments, but there was always a hint of amusement (or resentment) in their voices when they would recount the praises my teachers would sing come parent-teacher conferences, or the smug congratulations I would give myself upon presenting them with another 100% or straight-A report card. Because the truth of the matter was this; at home, I was a beast.

This Dr. Jeckle/Mr. Hyde charade continued until just after my Sophomore year in High School, when I cooled my jets a little and settled into the joys playing a little hookie can bring, completing my Senior year with a whopping 33% attendance. I had seen the light, and it no longer consisted of the sun shining out of my teachers'.... faces.

Back to my 7th grade poetry assignment. My sister was kind enough to rummage through a box of my old school papers where she found a little gem I wrote in the form of a poem called, "My family's first aid kit." Please note the fraud in the final lines. I made them big and red for you.

My Family's First Aid Kit

My family lives inside a first aid kit.

Dad's the boss, the box

on the outside that holds the whole family together.

Strong and powerful.

Mom tries her hardest, the tube of Neosporin

used to heal and nurture

us kids when we're down or sick.

Jesse is just kind of there, the medium-sized

band aid, very important

but not always as useful when times get tough.

Abe is loving and caring, the ace bandage

that is always willing to wrap one up

in a hug in times of need.

Bethany is important, the hydrogen peroxide,

stinging at times but in the end

is always helpful

Meradith is the tweezers, always

the busy body, poking around this way and that.

And I am the delicate cotton ball, still important

but often forgotten.

As soft and as loving as I can be....

Sigh...

Oh, 12-year-old self,

You were so picked on and misunderstood. And so, so loving, little cotton ball. The way you used to bully your overdevelopedandslightlychubby way around the house until you got what you wanted. And how you were such an opinionated, entitled, little know-it-all. How I wish I could spend a few moments with you to give you all the attention you deserved... to slap you across the face for being such a little, brown-nosing turd.

You're lucky you're so cool now.

Love,

25-year-old self