“Mom, Chris doesn’t think you like him.”
As I focused on browning the ground beef for tacos that night, I look over my shoulder. My sixteen-year-old daughter sits at the table, her homework spread out in front of her. She’s looking at me, waiting for an answer.
“Hon, Chris is your boyfriend, shouldn’t he be more worried about whether or not you like him?”
She rolls her eyes, “You know what I mean, mom.”
I really didn’t. Why was I, as her mother, expected to not only like but welcome with open arms every boy she brings home? As her mother, don’t I get to reserve the right to remain apart. I tried to explain this to my daughter but it fell on deaf ears.
“He’s afraid of you mom.”
Good! I smiled at my thoughts.
What confuses me is that I’m polite to the boy, kind and accepting. I’ve never said anything mean or threatening to him. Still, my lack of overjoyed bliss at his courting of my eldest child, my first born, has been noticed. And judging by my daughters frowning face, it is unacceptable.
I try again. “Hon, I get that he’s your boyfriend, and that you plan to spend the rest of eternity together, but as your mother I reserve the right to not be his biggest fan. If he were to hurt you or heaven forbid break up with you, I need to be free to bash his memory, tell you he was never good enough for you, and hate him for eternity.”
She smiles but still looks unconvinced. “How am I to do that convincingly if you think I love everything about him?” She wavers, I can see it, she’s wavering.
I go in for the kill, “I never want you to feel trapped in a relationship because everyone else loves him. You need to be free to make your own choices without concern for what your family will think.”
I don’t know if I have swayed her, but she knows a lost cause when she sees it. “Fine.” She drops her head over her work again.
I continue making dinner, rehashing the conversation in my mind. I know I’m right, but I question myself regardless.
Rebecca Lamprey 