Kissing
My son kisses me on command. It’s quite impressive.
Can I get a kiss?
I sound like a swarthy guy telling a woman to give him a smile. My son obeys because he’s three and can’t survive without me. Is that why I’d complied in my twenties?
My husband jokes that this will become a problem when he starts going to school. He doesn’t want our son to get in trouble for unnecessarily kissing people. I explain that he only does it when I command him.
If anything, I want to tell my son only to kiss people if it pleases him, and to do it so it pleases me. Sweetly, tenderly. Side note: I feel morally obliged to reassure readers I’m not actually giving my son tips on how to be a good kisser nor am I pulling one of those teen romance conceits where I tell him he should practice on me. (blech) I am, if anything, a patent mother and witness. I want him to bring people as much joy as he brings me.
I cannot wait for him to fall in love. It will be so magical, and if he’s anything like me, falling in love will make everything else—the horror, the death, the bitterness and harshness of life—worthwhile.
