I’ve been thinking (obsessing) for the last few days about Sweet Pea’s kissing admission. Not so much because she – gasp – kissed a boy. I suppose that happens eventually. I was hoping for a latent interest in boys. Say…grad school. But c’est la vie. And, she has a weird lip thing going on right now. So I’m consoling myself with the knowledge that Mr. Preschool Playa probably got a fungus.
What’s bugging me is the actual circumstances of her blurting that out. The other little girl was a little bit of a smart mouth. Even her mother told her to quit being so sassy to Sweet Pea. You know that kid…mouthy, bossy, know it all. I know that kid because I AM that kid. But I digress. Anyway, she said something with an “I’m better than you” air, and Sweet Pea’s retort was to brag about boy kissing experience. OMG. Really? At four years old she already gets that she can work it with the boys?
I am not prepared for this.
And here is the other part that bugged me. MY first instinct wasn’t about the kissing. I wanted to shout up to her, “I can hear you!” Again, really? I am thinking I should be teaching her how to sneak around and keep me in the dark? We are in for a looong adolescence.
Of course I’m totally projecting. (It’s all about me you know.) The whole thing took me right back to 1987. Dishing with my girlfriends Jennifer and Janet in the bathroom of St. Mary’s school. If I recall, we were debating ditching out on mass so we could further discuss the fact that my 7th grade love interest had, only the day before, chased, tackled, and then kissed me. I am certain that it was the closest any of us had come to making out. And that was BIG TIME. I remember I was telling them all about the totally indecent things that said love interest had written in a note to me – things that in my cluelessness seemed romantic, but in hindsight should have gotten him slapped across the face – when who should walk out of the bathroom stall but my mother. I honestly thought I was going to die. Either from the sheer horror, or because she was going to kill me.
I don’t really remember what happened next. And even though my mom is standing about 10 feet from me right now I’m not asking. My parents loooove to laugh about the trials and tribulations of parenting teenaged Clover. For me it’s like watching the first few weeks of American Idol. You can see the humor, but you’re too uncomfortable to laugh about it.
Fortunately, Mr. G was as squeaky clean as an adolescent boy could be. He can set the morality boundaries with a clear conscience. I might have some skeletons in my closet, but those kids will have a hard time pulling anything over on us. I know every sneaky teenager trick in the book.