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I Was Hoping This Wouldn’t Happen for At Least Another 16 Years

Candy's Column

I Was Hoping This Wouldn’t Happen for At Least Another 16 Years

It all started when our 18-month-old daughter came home from daycare one day wearing a strange boy’s pants.

I didn’t ask any questions at the time, but deep in my heart I wanted to let her know that no amount of applesauce cups was worth giving up her dignity like that.  (Also, that her teachers really need to start putting a bib on her because this whole going-through-three-outfits-a-day nonsense is getting out of control, not to mention embarrassing when she has to borrow another kid’s too-short cargo pants.  However, in the event it wasn’t simply a case of having dropped a buttload of YoBaby on her own pants, I kept a watchful eye on her — and the TEN boys in her class of twelve.)

I looked for the telltale signs:  constantly texting on her Elmo phone; doodling a certain boy’s name when she should be coloring in her Strawberry Shortcake book; reeking of a romantic afternoon spent sharing a container of cheesy puffs.  Nothing that I could see, or that my baby boyfriend-radar could pick up, so I relaxed and stopped worrying that my daughter may be distracted by a boy when a high-potential toddler such as herself should be focusing on more important things, such as building her future career as Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court and learning where her elbow is.

Then the other week, her teacher broke the news to me.

“Skylar has a boyfriend,” Teacher Marion announced giddily.

I steadied myself by grabbing on to the nearest slide.  My dreams of the Supreme Court — DASHED.  Ruth Bader Ginsburg never wasted her time on such frivolity at 18 months of age, believe you, me.  She was memorizing her Constitutional Law books on the playground and practicing her all-important “contemplative judge” gaze.

Then again, Ruth, bless her heart, didn’t have my daughter’s looks.

“Is it serious?” I gulped.

“Weston really looks out for her,” Teacher Marion nodded.  “They also talk to each other nonstop at naptime,” she added a little less giddily.

Great.  Now this boy was interfering with my daughter’s career AND her beauty sleep.

“And the boy’s pants she came home in –?” I asked weakly.

“Oh.  We grabbed those from Luke’s cubby.  Skylar’s just a really messy eater,” Teacher Marion assured me, much to my relief.  I was about to ask why they never bothered to grab the BIB from Skye’s cubby when a little blond, blue-eyed fellow suddenly attached himself to my leg.

“That’s Weston!  Her boyfriend!”

Weston smiled up at me.  I did my best to give him the stink eye, but DARN!  He was crazy cute.  I could see why Skye was smitten.

“Your intentions with my daughter — are they noble?” I demanded.  Weston handed me an empty Teddy Grahams bag, clearly as a symbol of his honor.

In return, I gave him and Skye my blessing.  My husband, on the other hand, has convinced himself the two are just “buddies.”  As my dad has convinced himself that The Stork delivered Skylar to his virgin daughter.  Denial — it’s not just a river in Egypt.  It’s also a cocoon protecting fathers from the heart attack-inducing truth and daughters from having to wear oversized sweatsuits until they’re 50.

Skye and Weston have since taken their relationship to the next level.  (Well, she is 19 months old now.)  Teacher Marion confided earlier this week that Skye not only let Weston comb her hair — this, from the girl who SCREEEAAAMS bloody murder whenever I attempt to get near her curls — but also walked around the room with him HOLDING HANDS.  Hey, now!  Teacher Marion rushed to get the camera and capture the adorable moment but, as kids are prone to do, they pulled back as soon as she was finally poised to point and click.

I guess they didn’t want the pictures leaked to the tabloids, especially considering Skye is a scandalous THREE MONTHS older than he.  How Justin and Selena of them.

Because sharing is caring, as I tell my kids. (Except my wine. Never my wine.)
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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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