“Mom, I have a boyfriend in town now.”
Several concerns come to mind, most notably is the fact that my daughter is apparently, and unbeknownst to me, currently involved in a long distance relationship. Secondly, she has just proudly admitted to now cheating on this poor guy with a local. Thirdly, she is six.
Six going on forty four. She is a goddamn cougar in a little person’s body. Careful what you sign up for boys, and make no mistake about it, you will be her bitch.
On the one hand, I get it. I was in grade school once. I had a different boyfriend in each grade. Back in the Dinosaur Era, having a boyfriend in elementary school meant going to great lengths to avoid having any contact with one another whatsoever. It was perfectly harmless.
“You wanna be my boyfriend? Great. We will no longer talk, look at each other, stand in close proximity, or so much as breathe in one another’s general direction. Any attempt to do so and you will automatically forfeit your right to be my significant other until the end of time (or at least until the 5th grade). I sincerely hope that you can agree to the terms of this agreement because I love you, and I know that you love me, you know, because you checked “the box.”
I should probably just embrace the innocence while I can. In a few short years we’ll be dealing with the real thing, and I can already unequivocally confirm that I will not handle it well. I will go so far as to say that my daughters will most likely hate me, but I’m fully prepared for it and quite honestly couldn’t care less.
Been there done that. I know way too much and I’ve been out of the loop for decades. God only knows what teenage dating entails these days. I watch Dateline and let me tell you, “Not gonna happen on my watch.” I may not be the hippest mommy on the block, but I am definitely not a prude. Regardless, some of the shit that goes down nowadays between boys and girls I don’t even understand the meaning of. Don’t try to Google any of it either. There is no definition or parenting manual that walks you through it step by sickening step. It’s a secret fucking language that old people are not privy to, not even in the slightest. “You do what with what? How do you even spell that?”
I have friends who have teenagers. The insight they have shared with me is beyond disturbing. Do you want to know what in some sick adolescent circles has replaced the “goodnight kiss?”
You do not.
Trust me, and you’re welcome for not disclosing.
I know I’m getting ahead of myself. My girls are still young and fairly innocent as far as exposure to such behavior goes. Besides, raise your kids right and they will make the right decisions. Right?
Here’s the problem with that logic from my point of view. Despite a valiant effort on my part, most days I feel like a monkey could do better than me at parenting my children. There is no sure bet that when the day comes and my children are running free into the sweaty and hairy world of adolescent hormonal perverts, that they will not beyond a shadow of a doubt become one themselves.
I can’t even get my six year old daughter to consistently tell the truth about whether or not she brushed her teeth. How can I possibly assume that in a few short years she will miraculously turn over the honesty leaf when confronted with a direct question regarding a recent class fieldtrip.
“Did you play chicken on the bus?”
“OMG Mom. What is wrong with you? Of course not. That is so 2nd grade.”
Perfect. Wake me up in fifteen years, give or take.