Guiding Kids Through Life's Storms

I recently caught up with a grade school classmate that I hadn't seen in over a decade (ugh, I'm old).  It was a booze-filled gathering, as most reunions tend to be. We updated each other on our lives, reminisced about our Catholic School upbringing, and might have even made projections on the future. I suppose what I meant is that we got drunk, shared horror stories of our current predicaments, complained about our Catholic School upbringing, and made the accurate assumption that we will be stuck living the same monotonous lives for the foreseeable future. It was a great time.

While the encounter provided plenty of funny things to write about, I'd like to focus on the Catholic School complaints. I've only ever attended Catholic School - kindergarten through college. I'm not one for making excuses (yes, I am), but all issues apart from those of the daddy variety can and will be chalked up to parochial schooling. The most interesting part, however, is how both categories of issues crossed paths in my young, formidable years - a correlation that I had effectively forgotten until my blast-from-the-past friend made mention of it. Like a frenemy after a hangover reminding you of the actual attractiveness of your hook up the night before all the terrible decisions you made the night before, my former classmate asked if I remembered Rainbows.

Well, I do now - thanks.

(Source)

Seemingly, I had repressed this period of my youth (wishing I might have repressed this part instead). Unfortunately, as soon as he mentioned the word Rainbows, the yellow workbook came racing back into the memory banks. Ah, the fond memories of having to participate in a program focused on "guiding kids through life's storms." Essentially, it was a class for kids with divorced parents - at least that's what they focused on at my school. Rainbows come after storms - oh, I see what they did there.

Their website explains that "children need guidance and compassion to prevent a loss event from literally defining their lives through later destructive choices. In fact, research proves that unresolved grief leaves kids vulnerable to major at-risk behaviors." Boy, did they fail with me.  If anything, I've perfected destructive choices. I've even found a way to capitalize on those choices, and you're reading it right now.

Cut a kid's recess time, and you're asking for future at-risk behaviors. But, apparently, Rainbows figured it was better that kids with divorced parents focus on their broken homes and how that makes them feel rather than focusing on kickball. I could've been an Olympian if I had been allowed to harbor all of that "loss" into athletics. Yes, I just blamed a youth organization for my failures in life. You know what helps kids through life's storms? Singling them out by putting them in a faux-support group so the whole school knows they come from broken homes. There was even a picture in the yearbook - right between Newspaper Club and Spelling Bee. The should have just captioned the photo "Children with Absentee Fathers."

Perhaps I didn't fully participate in the program; I didn't give it my all. I come to this assumption because if any class in recent memory can attest to my efforts - I definitely didn't do the required reading. If the reading would've gotten me my recess back, maybe I would have. They should have predicted a future riddled with technology and held the program during Handwriting class - cursive is so stupid. The only thing I need cursive for is my signature. Why not teach little Lily how to write three letters in cursive to sign her name and call it a day? But, no, I had to sit around and talk about my feelings while the other kids were outside growing boobs and self-esteem. Thanks, Rainbows.

When If I get divorced, I'll make sure my mistakes children steer clear of youth organizations void of competeition. I'm breeding athletes here, no time for pussy shit feelings.

---

"I'm pretty sure I drank that terrible program out of my memory." - my brother after I reminded him

Would You Wear Shoes?

I was a tomboy growing up. Super cool at the time (naïvety an overarching factor), not so cool in retrospect.  Tomboys don't get the boys, they get tackled by them - if only I would exert as much effort to get tackled in my adulthood.  The wannabe boys don't get the boys nor do they get the respect of the boys - talk about a lose-lose.  I don't know how old I was when this started.  All I remember is, I would rather play football at recess than hopscotch.  I was never picked last, and I needed to make sure the boys knew I was tough. What a waste.  Let's just chalk this tomboy decision up as a daddy issue, shall we?

These social mistakes choices lasted until about 7th grade.  It wasn't until then that I finally started to come around to the fact that I'd like to make out with boys, not outrun or out-throw them (I'll never get tired of out-smarting them, though).  I started on the "I'm a girl and I am trying to be pretty" route (still working out the kinks).  I shifted from chapstick to lip gloss and football to foursquare.  I thought I was on a roll, fooling everyone to believe I was now uniquely feminine.  The charade was going nicely until one fateful day...

Recess 1998: typical middle school setup - boys on one side, girls on the other. We were all sitting at the lunch tables in our respective groups.  Suddenly, the boys started shouting my name, instructing me to come over.  I tried to play it cool, but let's be honest, I was ecstatic they finally realized I was a hot piece of ass girl.

I casually walk over hoping my boundlessly escalating nerves go unnoticed, praying to God the months of Skip-It training would pay off.  I couldn't risk a stumble - surely I would never recover from such embarrassment.  I was elated - heart was pounding, prepubescent sweat glands working hard.  The boys wanted to talk to ME.  Maybe one of them was going to ask me out? I knew this day would come.  Whatever it was they wanted to tell me, it was sure to be important.

Well, it was important - important for my inevitable future of letting guys prey on my insecurities and diminished self esteem (again with the daddy issues).  I reach the quixotic table of boys - some whose voices sporadically cracked in and out - and all of them kept telling each other to "say it."  No one wanted to tell me whatever it was that had them so worked up.  "You tell her!" "No, you tell her!" - it went on for what seemed like eternity.  But I kept my cool, "Come on guys, what did you want to tell me?"

It was in that fleeting moment that I should have walked away.  While they were still having trouble finding their balls, I should have slinked back to the comfort of my friends.  But no, in true Lily fashion, I waited around to have their balls thrown in my face (fortunately, not literally).

Finally, someone said "____, you tell her. You're the one that came up with it!" (name omitted as to not give him any credit for being clever).  He begrudgingly obliged their peer pressure and asked,

Would you wear shoes if you didn't have feet?

I was really confused - why were they having so much trouble asking me such a dumb question?  My response took less than a second, "Well, no."  Then it came like a lonely man on a prostitute...

Then why do you wear a bra?

I was mortified. (I'll give you a minute to wish you could go back to that day, find this boy, and pat him on the back for being so funny ... k, time's up).  MORTIFIED.  I immediately ran back to the girls, attempting to tell them what just happened, instead, breaking down in tears - no, sobs.  I ran my suppressed tomboy sprint to the bathroom, refusing to leave the confines of the stall for anyone.

(Source)

Well, I was 12, I didn't have much say on how long I could keep myself cooped up (thank God for studio apartments at 25).  I was only allowed to wallow in self pity for a few minutes until my teacher came in and made me tell her what happened.  I had to relive the whole incident, wishing all the while that their balls were actually thrown in my face instead of that insult.  I could have come back from balls.  There was no coming back from breast-less bras.  Of course, she made him apologize, I hated him for God knows how long, and I made my mom find me a bra that didn't say "Nearly A" on the tag.

Truth is, I think it's absolutely hilarious.  Sure, it was devastating the day it happened.  But as my mantra promotes: bad decisions make good stories.  It was a bad decision to walk into a rowdy tween boy circle, but, hey, thanks for the story...and the backbone.  It was probably one of the last times I took a joking insult seriously.

A few years after that fateful day, my boobs finally grew...for a week.  But that one week was enough time to convince everyone (including me) that this spurt might last for a while.  Sophomore year, I reminded ____ what he had said to me years before.  He didn't really remember it, but simply responded, "Well your feet look great now."  Of course, he was prematurely assuming they would look even better, but that never happened.  Sure, now you can discern my chest from my back a bit easier, but, more importantly, my personality is big.  In the end, that's all that matters, because guys love big boobs personality.

"Breasts: Because you can't motorboat a personality."