Why, you might ask … “So John can see my back.”
John is a recently turned 5-year-old, mop-topped boy with whom Jellybean’s been steadily smitten pretty much since setting her flip-flopping feet into her new school.
Defining such pre-K relationships is a little touchy. Jellybean turns a shade of red that Crayola has yet to invent at the prospect of calling John her boyfriend. So what to define these daycare-crossed love birds?
“Infatuated” (too “Ice Castles”-sounding) plus “infatuated” generally ends in “restraining order.”
“Betrothed?” (too “Braveheart” and should come with a parcel of land and servants. “In love,” (oh, hell no!). “Goin’ together?” (sounds kinda “Saved by the Bell” — makes me think of nugget rings and Espirit jeans). In other words — innocent.
That’s it — Jellybean and John are “goin’ together.”
And there’s already been drama. Just last week, John tried to kiss Jellybean on the hand, but she wiped it off, apparently offended at his aggressiveness. I already don’t like this playa’-in-training and he hasn’t even made eye contact with me yet.
Whatever happened to cooties?
‘Course it seems as though Jellybean’s giving as good as she gets in the drama department. A week or so ago, John had his feelings hurt because he overheard Jellybean telling one of her little girlfriends that Justin Bieber was her boyfriend. This flew all over John and he didn’t talk to Jellybean for the rest of the day.
They’ve since made up.
Now, every time I pick Jellybean up from school, the teachers coo over her “special friend,” like this is some kind of social abomination that I’m supposed to endorse.
I don’t think so (I say, doing my best Madea impression). This isn’t cute, this isn’t funny and this isn’t something that should be ignored. Granted, Jellybean’s not sniffing airplane glue or white-out on the monkey bars, but this little dude is definitely a gateway into a world of madness and nonsense that I’m not emotionally prepared for.
And this isn’t cynicism or over-protective Papa talkin’ here. I’ve already had a bowlful of this worry stew known as Boys, and it’s a gnarly meal that doesn’t get better with age.
Keep in mind, that The Diva, at 15, has taught me all I need to know about dating from a parent’s perspective. Jellybean and John may be only holding hands now, but it won’t be long before he’s hangin’ around the house like mosquitoes on a bug zapper — with pretty much the same results.
The next thing I know, he’ll be laying on my couch, watching “Ridiculousness” on MTV, taking up my parking spot and eating all the hashbrown casserole.
And just when I get used to having him around — like that wart that looks kinda like Fonzie’s face, but you worry about cancer so decide to have it removed only to realize it was a defining feature (like when Jennifer Grey got a nose-job) –—she dumps him, and I’m the one heartbroken.
Nope. I’m nipping this romance in the bud right now.
Save for the hope that Jellybean grows up to be ugly — perhaps a third eye staring out from her forehead — and socially awkward (given her DNA that seems unlikely), I’m gonna have to break up the happy couple before things get serious.
The first thing I’m gonna do is get rid of that dress. The only back John is gonna see will be covered by a wooly sweater and a picture of Justin Beiber.
Contact Brett Buckner at firstname.lastname@example.org