Take it outside
“Can he come over later?” our 17-year-old daughter asks, hopeful that six o’clock is not too late for her boyfriend to swing by. He is a nice boy, a dedicated son to a single mom, a good older brother to two younger sisters; overall, a very positive influence in my daughter’s life.
“Sure,” I mutter as the younger girls (who have massive crushes on their sister’s boyfriend) squeal with glee. Giddy, the 17-year-old’s thumbs maniacally tap out the good news on her cell phone’s keypad. The deal is done. He’s on his way.
Like my parents before me, and their parents before them, I answer her next, age-old, query with, “Ask me if I like him later, after you graduate from college and get your first real job.” Translation: Until those goals are achieved, I’m not getting excited about anybody.
…But I do like the guy, even if this week’s ambition is to be a cage fighter. (Ugh, such a headache I get from the eye rolling over that one.) He’s nice. He’s very respectful.
Mostly. Case in Point:
An hour later Niceboy greets my daughter with a hug and a kiss. Then the two play with the younger kids for a bit, until they can escape the adoration of the younger two girls. They come and chat with my husband and I , occasionally gazing into each other’s eyes. They kiss again. They hold hands. She sits on his lap as they make conversation. They smooch again.
I want to vomit. They decide to “go to the park” before I snap past my dumbstruck nature.
I want to scream, “Hey, NICEBOY! Don’t kiss my daughter in front of me!” I want to demand that she leap off his lap, that they take their puppy love out of the line of sight of the impressionable youngsters. (aka, ME.)
Later I complain to my husband about this kissing business. This… this constant public display of affection nonsense. Whatever happened to just holding hands? My husband laughs and pretends to scold the teens. “That’s right! Don’t make everyone watch you kiss! Only your mother and I can kiss in front of everyone!”
I start to agree and then pause with a disgusted look on my face.
I am trying to think of a witty comeback, something that makes complete sense.
Nothing does. He has a point. We do hug and peck in front of the kids. We hold hands. We snuggle on the couch. We kiss—NOT MAKE OUT—but kiss. Lovingly. The kids sometimes heckle us with “Oh baruther”s and “Get a room”s and whatnot.
But we are the PARENTS in this family equation. We are the bill payers and the adults and we have earned the right to hug in front of our very own kids. These… these TEENAGERS have earned no such right. They are brazen, what with their kindness and niceness and puppy lovingness.
I feel old as the stink eye settles in upon my gaze whenever I look at the two of them. A line needs to be drawn. The rules need to be set forth.
… a message best delivered by my husband, I think, while I make “tsk”ing noises and “that’s right” affirmations as I stand directly behind him. Then, as if to prove my point, I’ll kiss him swiftly on the cheek.
In your FACE, teenagers!
