What to Do When a Girl Breaks Your Son's Heart: A Tutorial

A few weeks ago, my 11-year-old was mopily (yeah, it's a word.. to me) playing Legos at the kitchen table.  I could tell all was not right in the state of Denmark, but I didn't want to pry.  Like most parents, engaging a pre-teen in conversation is like trying to capture a cat in order to take him/her to the vet.  You have to creep up on her all stealth-like, get her to trust you, maybe even pet her once, and then BAM! Attack! Wrestle all 4 limbs to the ground! Shove headfirst into the travel carrier! Run like the wind!

Is that just me?

Anyway, so I engage.

Me:  Hey, kid.  What's going on?
Him:  Eh, nothing.
Me:  You OK?
Him:  Well, I just found out [girl's name] likes someone in her class.
Me (side-eyed):  Oh...
Him:  I thought she liked me.

I could hear the pitter-patter of his little heart breaking a little.  Or maybe it was mine.  What do I do in this situation?  I know what it's like to have a crush not reciprocated.  That was me for most of my formative years.  Crushes suck.  To quote the dad from Sixteen Candles:

"That's why they call them crushes.  If they were easy, they'd call them something else."

Dang, 80s movies are so, like, poignant.

So, to help all the mothers out there with similar stories, I have put together a tutorial.  You're welcome.

1.  Try not to wring the girl's neck.  This should be a no brainer - no one wants to go to jail.  But, you have to be reminded of this when you next see this person who has (knowingly or not) stomped all over your son's feelings.  In our situation, the girl came over almost immediately after he told me, I had to hold myself back from drop-kicking her out our back door. Instead, she got the stink-eye. Take that!

2.  Allow your son to share his feelings without going all mama bear on him. As I watched him struggle with grown up feelings, while playing a child-like game, I wanted to grab him, hold on for dear life, and say, "I know how you feel!  I've loved, too!!  Allow me to tell you about ALL of them!  In detail!!!"  Which then leads you into #3.

3.  Share your own painful, and extremely personal, stories of heartbreak.  In retrospect, this is probably bad advice.  As I walked him through my many stories of unrequited love, he looked more and more alarmed.  He really should know better than to talk to a mother of sons.  Who else am I supposed to share my wealth of knowledge with?  I know better now!  Let me teach all you girls of a certain age!  Boys are dumb!

If these words of wisdom don't send your son running for the hills, ensuring this is the LAST TIME he'll ever come to you for advice, you obviously did it wrong.

In the end, it all wound up OK.  The girl is a friend of his, she continues to come over daily and I just have to get over it. He seems fine with it (really, he seemed fine with it less than 10 minutes after it happened).

That's boys for you.  



Disclaimer:  I am in no way, shape or form a person who should be giving actual parenting advice.  Please do not attempt any of the above.  Especially the wrestling of the cat.

The Story of an Unlikely Hip Hop Girl

For as long as I can remember, I've loved hip hop & R&B music.  I don't even know how it happened.  I grew up in a fairly "Top 40" kind of town, where would I have learned the awesomeness that was LL Cool J? Ice T? The Beastie Boys?  Keith Sweat?  Granted, a lot of their songs were mainstreamed, but I continued to listen to (and memorize) ALL the songs on their albums.  I was hooked.  And, an excellent rapper [read:  no, not at all].

In high school, it was more of the same.  Sure, I ran with the crowd. I knew the words to Madonna's "Vogue" or (shudder) memorizing the "rap" to Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire".  But, rap, hip hop, R&B?  That was my thang.

In college, I had more freedom to listen to what I wanted at higher decibels.  As you know, I love to swear, so swearing because the song called for it was the peanut butter to my chocolate.  I met similar-minded people in college.  My roommate was devastated when 2Pac was killed.  We listened to him all night long.  She called her long-distance boyfriend to make sure he was okay.  We mourned when Biggie was killed, too.

So, we spent our weekends dancing at clubs and overtaking the DJ booth at our favorite bar.  We danced and sang and rapped and hip hopped all the livelong day.  It was pretty fucking awesome, G.

These days, I still listen to my music.  A white girl.  In her minivan.  Driving down her predominantly white street.  Because SiriusXM has created a station called The Fly. Hip hop from the 90s.  That shit is playing in my car 24/7, yo.  To add to that, I have become a sideshow at book club.  My friends and coworkers are always amazed and, yes, amused when I tell them my favorite songs.

And then they make me rap.

Listen.  Just because I know the words by heart doesn't mean I can perform them well.  I'm a small, white girl.  I don't even have swagger.

And, you know, grammar is important to me.

But, it doesn't matter.  Because I'm such entertainment, my one girlfriend downloaded a bunch of music to her Kindle so I could perform for her yet again at this month's book club.

My once considered hard-core rap existence has become an opening act (or closing act, if I've had a lot to drink) for all our parties.

What do I care?  I get to listen to my music!  Bring it!