Commitmentphobe

Last night, Drew crawled into my lap like a baby as I was reading. He is getting too old and big and strong and grown up for me to force him to hang out with me because I am his mother and not a video game or SpongeBob, so I really enjoyed it. I started kissing his face all over, you know, since no one was looking and all.

Drew: Mommy! Eww! It’s like we’re dating or something?

Me: Like we are dating? Huh? What’s dating to you? What do you know about dating?

Drew: It’s like when boys and girls touch each other and kiss all the time or get married.

Me: I thought you wanted to get married to me.

Drew: Mommy. I am six years old!!!!!


Apparently the commitment phobia starts early. Next year he’ll be seven, then ten, then fifteen, and I am just sitting around waiting forever, my best years behind me, until he meets some harlot in pigtails his own age and bails, leaving me in my tattered wedding dress, a 21st century Miss Havisham, crumbling in front of a mirror while they go out to the movies or whatever TOTALLY INNOCENT ACTIVITY fifteen year olds are up to in 2021. Maybe sock hops will come back in vogue.


Sigh.