Took the Boy with me to the post office this evening.  I like to multi-task, so errands doubled as quality time.

We stood in line while he played with my Blackberry, and then he whispered to me, “Why aren’t there better looking people at the post office?”

“Boy!” I hissed, feeling only slightly less embarrassed than when he was four and asked this man at the grocery store why he was fat.

Then I looked around to try to prove him wrong.

“There,” I said, indicating a lovely blonde woman at the counter ahead of us.

“Too tall,” he said, dismissively.


“She is very pretty.”

“And, I’m here,” I said when it occurred to me that I was at the post office.

“Yeah, but you’re my mom.”

“Well, what about that lady?” I ask, tilting my chin up at the woman standing in the line to buy shipping materials across the room.  Then I let my sunglasses fall down my nose a bit so I can get a better look at her. “Okay, never mind.”

“See?” he asks.

“Nice shoes, though.”

I notice the older woman in front of us is listening to our conversation and say, “I don’t think we should be talking about this.”

“Then what should we talk about?  How about the situation in Iran, Mom?  Watched the news lately?”

“How did I raise such a smartass?”

“The mind boggles.”


We got in the car, and I tried to open up the lines of communication again.  “So tell me about your girl.”

“Which one?” he asks.

“Good Lord, Boy.  How many are there?”

“Five,” he says, then thinks for a second.  “No, six.”

“Well, how’s it going with the one you like best?” I ask.  I will make this work.

“Not so good.  She’s decided to go back to her girlfriend.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I say, then I realize what he’s said.  “What?”

“Lesbians suck.”

Crap.  “What do you mean?  You’re dating a lesbian?”

“She’s bi-sexual, Mom.”

Right.  Of course she is.  I pass right by my exit and have to circle around the airport to get headed in the right direction again.

“And the thing is, she says this girl really cares about her,” he continues.

Breathe, Paige.  Don’t say anything.  Just breathe.  There’s the terminal.  Oh, good. Airport exit.

“And I know that I have all these other girls, but if she wanted to be with me – poof – all those other girls would be gone,” he finishes.

I wait a beat to be sure he’s finished and then I say, “Well, Honey, it sounds like she’s staying with this girl because she really does like her.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And, well, it – that relationship – is what she knows, right?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says and looks out the car window.

“Then, the smartest thing you can do is let her go.  She’s going back because that relationship’s not done.  If you really care about her, you need to let her see that through without trying to interfere.  When she’s done with it, that’s when you’ll hear from her.”

“What if I don’t hear from her?” he asks.

“Then, you haven’t lost anything by letting her go, because she would never have stayed with you.” I look over at him.  He’s still looking out the window.  “I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

“I hate that you’re always right,” he tells me.

“Sometimes I hate it, too.”

When we got home, Dog had eaten half his banana-peanut butter cake off the kitchen counter where I left it under foil.  He ate some of the foil, too.

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