My baby’s in love. Again.
No, I’m not talking about almost 10-year-old Monkey. He still thinks girls are water gun targets.
It’s Chunky who’s met the girl of his dreams. For the third time. We knew we were in trouble when he came home from preschool declaring he was going to marry one of his classmates. He spent the rest of that year telling me how things would change when he and Chante married and moved into our house. And painted it green.
But time moves on. Girlfriends throw temper tantrums and move to China. You mature. Your tastes change. And kindergarten hits! There you meet a tall blonde with glasses who gives you hugs when you fall off the monkey bars and sits at the peanut-free table with you even though she isn’t allergic.
Chunky was devoted to his precious Kari all through kindergarten AND first grade. They even got married during one of their playdates. Kari told him firmly that they would be skipping the kissing part of the ceremony. Chunky married her anyway.
But, alas, it seems elementary school relationships are as changeable as the cafeteria menu.
A couple of weeks ago, Chunky came home from science camp and informed us he’d met someone new.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But she has blonde hair and she likes me too.”
“Maybe you should introduce yourself,” I suggested.
By the next day he knew all he needed to know. I asked him about his new friend and he said, “Her name is Catherine, and she’s a unicorn underneath her skin.”
Oh dear, I thought. If he marries someone as creative as he is, they’ll starve.
Things got a little bit worse from there. I said something to the affect of, “Oh, she likes to play pretend like you?”
“No, Mom. She really IS a unicorn. AND she’s seen a dead alien. It washed up on the beach.”
Houston, we have a problem.
My voice went to that hanging-on-by-a-Hershey-bar pitch. “The beach? Here in Colorado, honey? Because we don’t have a beach.”
This fact was apparently irrelevant. Catherine has seen a dead alien. Phinneas and Ferb, eat your hearts out!
The two exchanged phone numbers. Chunky promptly lost hers. So on the last day of camp I introduced myself to her parents and we talked playdates. I’m no better than my son it turns out. I gave them my contact info but failed to get theirs.
And Catherine hasn’t called.
Every day my freckled-nosed 7-year-old says with his sad little voice, “When is Catherine going to call? I WISH I hadn’t lost her number! I miss Catherine!”
My poor baby! Why must girls be so cruel? Especially the really cool, popular ones. You know, the undercover unicorns who think they’re all that because they hang with washed-up extra-terrestrials. Sheesh! Some things never change.
I have a feeling Chunky’s teen years are going to be very hard. On me.
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