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I was a bad kid

August 6, 2012

I was a bad kid.  I have no idea really how it started, but I have brief memories of kindergarten where I would slither away during music time and go sit in my cubby away from the class.  Then I took some kids gum out of the teacher’s desk in second grade and then I ripped another girl’s homework up on the bus in third, and then I cussed a girl out in sixth (would not have been a problem except she told the teacher, who then apparently had the moral high ground to inform my parents), I ran away, I stole money for red suspenders, I don’t know what I did, but it was all bad.  I guess it got worse as I got older, I liked other bad kids, I liked boys in black leather biker jackets, I dropped out of college (owing them money that they had to try to hunt my parents down for – ), and I smoked cigarettes like a chimney.

I don’t think about this stuff often except when family stuff comes up, and it does, and it will, and then I always feel like the “bad” kid again.  I accepted the bad kid title long ago, attempted making peace with it, tried to rename it other things like: late bloomer, free spirit, misunderstood, independant, whatever.  I was like a scrap bag of remnant material, and over time I had to like the bad in me because it will never go away. There will always be something bad about me to write about in the yearly christmas letter but what I figured out was that I wasn’t all bad.  I still liked puppies and kittens, and I always showed up for work on time, I held on tight to friendships I felt valuable, and tried to find the beauty in the world without being bad and  I fell in love with another bad kid and had children on a whim, could be bad, was G-R-E-A-T.  Now, undoubtedly that I have all of this experience in being bad, I suppose my children will be good, which will, of course, be a mild dissapointment, but barring misdemeanors and weddings, they know I’m here for them anytime.

I had a streak, that’s for sure, but it made me fearless at times, it allowed me to relate to some I may never have been able to, and it makes for heartwarming stories that reassures my children when they get in trouble that they will never be all bad, or even all good for that matter.

I’m knitting some socks right now, a ghastly green and orange that should come up almost thigh hi or taller.  I like them, thigh hi’s are for a ‘certain’ type of person, probably one with a bad connotation but green and orange wool ones? How can you really be all bad in something like that? You can’t and that’s just my kind of bad anymore – a little risky but a little cozy and there’s a middle ground in there somewhere.


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