Twitterpated

Birds do it, bees do it and there was that unfortunately timed romp between 2 dogs at a friend’s house. Yes, it’s Springtime and a young man’s fancy turns to love. A little boy in Beana’s class has a crush on her. There have been phone calls, tokens of his affection, requests to be her boyfriend and even a kiss on the cheek. Anytime I’ve seen this little boy at their school, he’s always nice and polite and on the outside I’m cool as a cucumber; sharing Motherly advice like: “You’re too young to have a boyfriend.” or “You don’t only have to play with only Casanova, you can play with all your friends.”* However on the inside……….. I wish I could hide behind the slides on the playground until Cass shows up, and scare him enough that he’ll think twice about putting his lips on my kid’s face again but not enough that he’ll spend the rest of his days wearing a diaper. Thankfully (I think) increased school security prevents Beana from getting tagged with the moniker of “Girl whose mother is batshit crazy.” My mom finds this quite amusing; remembering when she was going through this with me. She laughs mightily when I tell her it’s not the same thing because it’s happening to me. TOOOOOOOOO. MEEEEEEEE. Okay yeah, so that’s a wee bit over dramatic, but that’s just how I roll.

My biggest struggle is how I make my “You don’t have to have a man to be happy” mantra age appropriate for a 9 year old. Let’s face it, I’m as anti-fairy tale as it gets. The bullshit idea of Prince Charming having to come and save the day, while the damsel in distress wanders around waiting oblivious to the danger, makes me stabby. Up until recently Beana’s always been an independent little sprite that would rather get dirty playing baseball, football or basketball; sitting daintily on the sidelines was not an option. Now that she’s been afflicted with the twitterpatted curse all she talks about is Casanova this, & Casanova said that. Daily, I fight the urge to place my hands on the side of my head, and pull out handfuls of hair while screaming expletives at the top of my lungs. I would be totally bald by now if my mom hadn’t step in with Solomon like wisdom and told me, “If Beana sees you freaking out now, she’ll never come to you when there’s really something to worry about. Just stay calm.” So I swallow all my parenting angst and hope she doesn’t realize the tick I’ve developed on the left side of my face is totally her fault.

* When I first typed this I had put fiends, which in the grand scheme of things is an accurate description when talking about gaggles of 8 and 9 year olds.

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