First kiss
“It was a stepping stone landmark in my life,” my younger son sighed once we were alone in the car, having dropped his best friend off at home following the big Middle School Fall Dance.
“What?” I asked hesitantly.
“Well, you know… my first kiss and all.”
“WHAT!?” I almost wrecked the car. “I thought I told you to be a responsible gentleman.”
“Yeah, Mom. I was. It was just a kiss.”
“I hope that was with just, you know,… lips. Very briefly. No… err… tongues involved or anything.”
(My son is 12.)
“Ewww! Gross!!! Of course, it was just lips. Kinda like this.” He slapped his hands together very briefly and lightly.
“Well, thank goodness.” (I had never seen a graphic representation of a first kiss.) “I mean, I wouldn’t want your girlfriend’s father knocking on the door at 3 am all pissed off because you had, well, you know….”
“Get real, Mom! I just felt ready, that’s all. It felt… right.”
Oooooooh. Was I going to be having this same conversation about… something else… like WAY earlier than I had ever anticipated???
The horror, the horror!
I changed the topic.
“I though you kissed S (one of his previous “girlfriends”).”
“Just on the cheek. This was a real kiss. You know, a stepping stone. A landmark in my life. What word am I looking for?”
“A milestone?”
“Yeah! A milestone! That’s it. This was a milestone event in my life.”
“Mmmm.” I tried to sound supportive and enthusiastic.
“So, what about you?” he asked. He was all pumped up and ready to chat.
“Excuse me?”
What about me? I had been at home alone eating a Stouffer’s French bread pizza and watching the movie Prime where Meryl Streep plays a therapist to newly divorced Uma Thurman. Uma meets this wonderful new guy, only he’s just 23 and she’s 37. Streep thinks it’s great and encourages Uma. Until she realizes the guy is her son. Ouch.
Well, at least it doesn’t matter to me if D marries a Jewish woman, I thought to myself. (The Meryl Streep character had been Jewish, and it was very important to her that her son marry a Jewish girl.) I am not Jewish.
“Your first kiss,” he persisted. “When did you get your first kiss?”
“Uhhh… seventh grade, I guess.” I was trying to relate, so I figured I should give the same year. Not that I was lying. I just wasn’t actually sure. I knew I had had my first date in seventh grade. We sent to see The Towering Inferno at the local movie theater. My friend’s mom had driven us there. I am pretty certain there was absolutely NO kissing involved. Disaster movies kind of do that to you.
I realized that I couldn’t actually remember my first kiss.
Well, I could remember my first French kiss, but I didn’t want to get into tongues with my 12 year old. Plus, I had been a lot older than 12. At least fourteen or fifteen. Maybe sixteen. And way more mature.
I could remember a boy’s attempt to French kiss me backstage after play practice in 9th grade. I remember it because I had found it positively revolting and disgusting. First of all, he was all sweaty and had gross boy BO. Second of all, I wasn’t the least bit attracted to him, and that whole tongue thing was just too much for me at the time.
Now, I do remember my first “real” French kiss. With a much older “college man.” I was probably a sophomore in high school by then, so maybe sixteen. That was a rather pleasant, albeit awkward, encounter. In retrospect, I suspect it may have been his first real French kiss as well. But maybe not. Who knows? It was a pleasant memory, at any rate.
“Who was it with?” my son asked.
“What?”
“Your first kiss?”
“Uhh…” I bit my lip. “I really don’t remember.”
“How can you not remember your first kiss?!”
“I dunno. It was a long time ago?” I said.
I was actually surprised that D was so talkative and effusive about the dance and his first kiss. I mean, he is naturally talkative and tells me pretty much everything, especially if it has to deal with his older brother. (An in house informant, if you will.) But I was surprised that he wanted to share so many… details… with his mother. Of course, he hasn’t turned 13 yet, so maybe that will all change. I certainly don’t remember telling my parents details about my school dances or kissing experiences. Ewwwwww.
I think it’s good that he feels so comfortable being open. He will – and does – talk to me about pretty much everything.
I worry about him because a) I am his mother and it’s my job to worry about him (I stole that line from Meryl Streep) and b) because he is so cute, girls are always flocking around him. I am not sure he knows how to handle all of this attention, especially when so many of the young girls today seem so forward and aggressive. They think nothing of calling him up on the phone – I doubt I would have ever called up boys on the phone at that age. But they also can be rather demanding and, quite frankly, rude. I have intercepted voice mail messages from irate pubescent girls along the lines of: “D, you need to call me back RIGHT NOW!” My reaction, of course, is “Whoa, missy!”
Many of these young girls seem incredibly bossy to me. It is one thing to be assertive, another to be a bossy cow. D finds this trait to be a turn off – thank God! -- but he is confused because all of these girls are paying so much attention to him. He is interested in girls, in theory, but I think he is still a bit young and immature. Not ready for the serious world of dating. These girls all seem ready to reproduce! Which is a VERY scary thought.
OK, yeah, I am exaggerating a bit. We all know girls tend to mature earlier than boys, and when older girls are interested in D, it makes me even more nervous. Even the ones his own age seem to pressure him into “dating” or “going together.” I fear they are getting their ideas from The OC or Melrose Place or whatever the current übersex teenybopper show is.
Personally, I like mature, adult shows. Like, say… Grey’s Anatomy. OK, well, never mind.
But at least they are all of legal age.
I have confidence that my son has a good head on his shoulders. I worry that he is too naïve and trusting at times. And that some of these femme fatales are… pushy, for lack of a better word. I have taught him to be a gentleman and to respect girls. Which basically means he is not allowed to do anything beyond the kiss that is represented by two hands slapping briefly, lightly until he is way past the age of, say,… thirty.
Just kidding.
Sort of.
“What?” I asked hesitantly.
“Well, you know… my first kiss and all.”
“WHAT!?” I almost wrecked the car. “I thought I told you to be a responsible gentleman.”
“Yeah, Mom. I was. It was just a kiss.”
“I hope that was with just, you know,… lips. Very briefly. No… err… tongues involved or anything.”
(My son is 12.)
“Ewww! Gross!!! Of course, it was just lips. Kinda like this.” He slapped his hands together very briefly and lightly.
“Well, thank goodness.” (I had never seen a graphic representation of a first kiss.) “I mean, I wouldn’t want your girlfriend’s father knocking on the door at 3 am all pissed off because you had, well, you know….”
“Get real, Mom! I just felt ready, that’s all. It felt… right.”
Oooooooh. Was I going to be having this same conversation about… something else… like WAY earlier than I had ever anticipated???
The horror, the horror!
I changed the topic.
“I though you kissed S (one of his previous “girlfriends”).”
“Just on the cheek. This was a real kiss. You know, a stepping stone. A landmark in my life. What word am I looking for?”
“A milestone?”
“Yeah! A milestone! That’s it. This was a milestone event in my life.”
“Mmmm.” I tried to sound supportive and enthusiastic.
“So, what about you?” he asked. He was all pumped up and ready to chat.
“Excuse me?”
What about me? I had been at home alone eating a Stouffer’s French bread pizza and watching the movie Prime where Meryl Streep plays a therapist to newly divorced Uma Thurman. Uma meets this wonderful new guy, only he’s just 23 and she’s 37. Streep thinks it’s great and encourages Uma. Until she realizes the guy is her son. Ouch.
Well, at least it doesn’t matter to me if D marries a Jewish woman, I thought to myself. (The Meryl Streep character had been Jewish, and it was very important to her that her son marry a Jewish girl.) I am not Jewish.
“Your first kiss,” he persisted. “When did you get your first kiss?”
“Uhhh… seventh grade, I guess.” I was trying to relate, so I figured I should give the same year. Not that I was lying. I just wasn’t actually sure. I knew I had had my first date in seventh grade. We sent to see The Towering Inferno at the local movie theater. My friend’s mom had driven us there. I am pretty certain there was absolutely NO kissing involved. Disaster movies kind of do that to you.
I realized that I couldn’t actually remember my first kiss.
Well, I could remember my first French kiss, but I didn’t want to get into tongues with my 12 year old. Plus, I had been a lot older than 12. At least fourteen or fifteen. Maybe sixteen. And way more mature.
I could remember a boy’s attempt to French kiss me backstage after play practice in 9th grade. I remember it because I had found it positively revolting and disgusting. First of all, he was all sweaty and had gross boy BO. Second of all, I wasn’t the least bit attracted to him, and that whole tongue thing was just too much for me at the time.
Now, I do remember my first “real” French kiss. With a much older “college man.” I was probably a sophomore in high school by then, so maybe sixteen. That was a rather pleasant, albeit awkward, encounter. In retrospect, I suspect it may have been his first real French kiss as well. But maybe not. Who knows? It was a pleasant memory, at any rate.
“Who was it with?” my son asked.
“What?”
“Your first kiss?”
“Uhh…” I bit my lip. “I really don’t remember.”
“How can you not remember your first kiss?!”
“I dunno. It was a long time ago?” I said.
I was actually surprised that D was so talkative and effusive about the dance and his first kiss. I mean, he is naturally talkative and tells me pretty much everything, especially if it has to deal with his older brother. (An in house informant, if you will.) But I was surprised that he wanted to share so many… details… with his mother. Of course, he hasn’t turned 13 yet, so maybe that will all change. I certainly don’t remember telling my parents details about my school dances or kissing experiences. Ewwwwww.
I think it’s good that he feels so comfortable being open. He will – and does – talk to me about pretty much everything.
I worry about him because a) I am his mother and it’s my job to worry about him (I stole that line from Meryl Streep) and b) because he is so cute, girls are always flocking around him. I am not sure he knows how to handle all of this attention, especially when so many of the young girls today seem so forward and aggressive. They think nothing of calling him up on the phone – I doubt I would have ever called up boys on the phone at that age. But they also can be rather demanding and, quite frankly, rude. I have intercepted voice mail messages from irate pubescent girls along the lines of: “D, you need to call me back RIGHT NOW!” My reaction, of course, is “Whoa, missy!”
Many of these young girls seem incredibly bossy to me. It is one thing to be assertive, another to be a bossy cow. D finds this trait to be a turn off – thank God! -- but he is confused because all of these girls are paying so much attention to him. He is interested in girls, in theory, but I think he is still a bit young and immature. Not ready for the serious world of dating. These girls all seem ready to reproduce! Which is a VERY scary thought.
OK, yeah, I am exaggerating a bit. We all know girls tend to mature earlier than boys, and when older girls are interested in D, it makes me even more nervous. Even the ones his own age seem to pressure him into “dating” or “going together.” I fear they are getting their ideas from The OC or Melrose Place or whatever the current übersex teenybopper show is.
Personally, I like mature, adult shows. Like, say… Grey’s Anatomy. OK, well, never mind.
But at least they are all of legal age.
I have confidence that my son has a good head on his shoulders. I worry that he is too naïve and trusting at times. And that some of these femme fatales are… pushy, for lack of a better word. I have taught him to be a gentleman and to respect girls. Which basically means he is not allowed to do anything beyond the kiss that is represented by two hands slapping briefly, lightly until he is way past the age of, say,… thirty.
Just kidding.
Sort of.
posted by delta at 4:52 PM
2 Comments:
You have just fueled my nightmares for the next eighteen years. I am locking my boys in a cage till they are all past thirty.
My D's first kiss came in 7th grade. She kissed him. I think his first kiss that meant anything was several years later.
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