My son, Wyatt, turned 15 years old on Monday.
I’m torn between wanting him to be social, and to have a girlfriend, and to feel up her boobies in some dark, forbidden corner of the school.
But I’m also relieved that the kid lives for his meals and his computer, and is content to go see “Gulliver’s Travels” with me on a Saturday night.
So the other night, as I was standing next to his computer desk, I notice that his cell is receiving a text.
As all good mothers do, I reach for the phone.
He doesn’t even look up.
He’s acting all, “Go ahead, I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Which of course makes me even more eager to read the text because I know reverse psychology when it’s being used on me.
I say, “I’m going to read this, Wyatt…here I go…I’m clicking the ‘read text’ button…right now.”
“Who is it from?” he asks.
“Evelyn. A giiiiiirl!”
Still no reaction, and even though he’s focussing on his computer game, I can see him looking at me through the corner of his eyes.
So I click, and the text reads, “Wyatt, what do you think I should do with my bangs: pull them back with a barrett or wear them flippy to the side.”
I look at Wyatt. “What do you think: pulled back or flippy to the side?”
He responds, “Flippy to the side.”
So I text her back, “Flippy to the side.”
“Why would some girl named Evelyn ask you for your opinion on hairstyles?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“Nope. I’m her bestie.”
“Her bestie?” I’m still staring at him.
“Wyatt, are you gay? ‘Cause if you are, I’m totally cool with that.”
“No Mom, I’m not gay.”
“Then why in the world would some girl ask some guy who has the fashion sense of Cat in the Hat how she should wear her hair?”