I have Carolyn’s youngest son at my place for a sleepover. He’s one-day younger than my daughter. Carolyn and I adopted the kids when we were mere seconds from menopause (a great story we’ll have to share sometime).
The two kids adore each other; they get along famously. Always have. Like brother and sister without the fights. So, when they asked if they could sleep in my daughter’s room on the same bed, Carolyn and I decided that would be okey dokey. They’re a few weeks away from turning eight, and not the most sophisticated flowers in the garden. Very innocent. Lucy and Ricky Ricardo are their media marriage role models.
My DD, however, upon hearing that they could indeed share the twin bed and kick each other silly all night long, suddenly turned coy. “But that’s so romantic,” she giggled.
Romantic? She just dared him to eat a caterpillar.
Anyway, when her friend countered her comment with “IT IS NOT ROMANTIC. EEEW!” she said, “Yeah, I guess not,” and raced him to the section of lawn we affectionately refer to as The Swamp.
Let me say here that Carolyn’s son is extremely polite. Never forgets his pleases or thank you’s, even when talking to my DD. When it was time to get ready for bed they very sweetly passed each other the toothpaste, shared the sink and spit into it instead of at each other.
They climbed into bed, I read them a story and kissed them goodnight. Lights out.
Suddenly I heard this exchange:
Carolyn’s DS (in his, for a youngun’, surprisingly masculine voice) to my DD: “Get me a glass of water.”
DS: “I need one.”
The lights went on. I peeked in to see DS sitting up in bed, looking mighty pleased with himself.
DS: “I just popped it out.”
DS: “My tooth. Get me a glass of water.” (I swear I heard, “Now, woman,” implicit in his tone.)
My daughter leapt from the bed while manly blood trickled down her bedmate’s chin. DD ran past me as I lurked in the hallway.
“Mom! Mom, did you see what he did?!!!” She lowered her voice. “He is awesome.”
She was clearly besotted. The evening had turned out to be romantic, after all.
Wow. The magic of first love. I’d like to get me some of that. I mean, I adore my husband, her father. He is awesome. But after twenty-six years, I am over getting out of bed to get him water or anything else unless he says please. Several times. I wonder if he’d pop out a tooth for me, just to stir the old embers? At our ages there must be a couple of loose molars in there somewhere, right?
Anywho, you bring the shotgun, Carolyn. I’ll bake the cake. If we marry ’em off now, we’ll avoid all those pesky future relationship dramas that we will be, let’s face it, too old to relate to and too tired to navigate when they’re older and we’re…well. Let’s just get ‘er done, shall we?