Okay. There. I said it. I feel much better now that I’ve gotten that out in the open. I know a mother is NEVER supposed to think that her child’s love interest is good enough for her precious booby-woobie, but this time my son done got himself a winner.
In case you’re wondering what my son will think when he reads this–HA! As if he pays attention to anything I have to say–let me reassure you that he’s already heard this from my own lips.
I love J. She’s delightful in every way, and has the additional benefit of not being named Emily.
We’re so glad the Emily years are over! And may I say that the months of Danielle weren’t so hot, either.
I’m not sure that J and Wolfie are going to make it (I fear not. They are too young, and I’m sensing that the planets are not quite aligned, yet), but if J is a sign of trends in women to come then we’re definitely on the upswing.
J is helpful, kind (she works at the Humane Society, for goodness’ sake), pretty, sweet, AND she was homeschooled which means she’s read actual books. This is like a homeschool mom’s dream come true.
What I love about their relationship is how much time they spend talking to one another. This is new. Because, based on Emily and Emily 2.0 (and that yukky Danielle), it didn’t seem like conversation and mental acuity was high on my son’s list of priorities when it came to women. I’m glad to see that as his frontal lobe seems to finally be developing he’s now showing an interest in the minds of his female companions. It gives me hope for my grandchildren.
J is bright and shiny like a new penny, or a ray of sunshine. She’s different from the dark and moody girls we’ve endured lo these past 9 years since puberty. Finally! A girl NOT on psychotropic medication. A mother’s dream!
And don’t think that I’m not aware that my son has purposely been lowering and lowering my expectations all these years. His father did the same thing to his mother so that by the time I came along my husband’s mother was just glad that I had all of my teeth.
J can cook. And she doesn’t have a ton of special dietary restrictions and food pickinesses that drive me crazy. ((I know. Pickinesses is not a word. But I’m old and can’t think of real words sometimes, so I just have to make them up.)
Danielle was a yoga instructor and she’d only eat yogurt and wheatgrass juice, and I think Emily 2.0 claimed that she could only eat raw birdseed and bananas. And only the bananas on Thursdays. It was a bitch trying to feed her on family holidays. Although I really should post my recipe for banana-birdseed dressing on Pinterest.
J will eat whatever you put in front of her, or at least she knows how to make you think she’s eating it like any person raised with table manners knows how to do.
J is proof that girls mature much faster than boys, and that boys eventually do grow up and start thinking with the bigger head.
I keep wanting to pull her aside and say, “Honey, you’re too good for him.” But I don’t want her to leave. In fact, if they break up, we’re keeping her.
Sorry son. We love you to pieces, but this time you’re out of your league. The girl is just too good for you.