Just Call Her Capulet

Many years ago, during one of many insufferable teenage phases, my mum turned to me, used her pointer finger like a wand and cursed me.

Every mother who has given birth to demon spawn a difficult child, will at some point, squint her eyes, take a deep breath and direct all of her frustrated energy at the universe, begging for mercy. When no relief arrives, she will draw the offender to her chest, bend her mouth to the hellion's ear and whisper,

"One day you will have a child just like yourself."

And with those simple words, the curse lives on.

Olivia, my gorgeous and smart little ball of fire, is both my joy and my penance. I would say that I probably got off lucky. For the most part, especially since Dallas came into our lives, Olivia is a gift. She has the power to make me laugh until I wet my pants. She also has the uncanny ability to push my buttons like a seasoned professional. She's seven. And precious. And precocious. And every now and then, we get a brief glimpse into what the future holds for us as her parents.

I'm scared.

A few weeks ago, she came home after playing with her friends and announced that she had a boyfriend. We raised our collective brows, smiled and asked all of those cutesy questions that you do when you are dealing with a child. "What's his name?"(Nathan) "Where does he live?"(down the street) And then we dismissed it with an absentminded pat to the head and a rote answer of, "That's nice, sweetie."

"Nathan told me that he loved me. I love him too." THAT got my attention. The mummy antennae shot straight up.

"Hold old is Nathan?" I asked.

"Seven," she replied. Okay then, everything was still copacetic. But we were fooled into a false sense of security.

Nathan is IN LOVE. Olivia might be home for five minutes and the child is pounding on our front door wanting her to come out and play. She is equally eager. She races through her homework to get 30 minutes of time with him. The kid is at our door, at dinner time, EVERY SINGLE DAY. And he doesn't just knock once or twice. The boy rat-a-tat-tats on the door until we open it. He is always slightly breathless, excited and peering around me to get a glimpse of Liv. She's like a mini Juliet, trying to break free from the dinner table to see her beloved Nathan and when she is told to stay put and finish her damn peas, she is crestfallen, crushed. It's all a bit much. Last week, she left her jacket over at Nathan's house and during the dinner hour, he made his usual pilgrimmage to our front door. I opened it and he stood there with this goofy look on his face and his hands behind his back.

"Whatcha got behind your back, Nathan?" I asked.

He blinked his eyes slowly, looked up at me and I swear to freaking God, there were cartoon hearts collecting around his head. "May I talk to Olivia?" he asked.

"She's having her supper, Nathan," I replied. Olivia, meanwhile is positively keening from the kitchen in her desire to see him. "You'll have to wait until after we finish eating." I tell him. He visibly deflates, mouth turning down at the corners and he says, "Okay. I'll come back."

Which he does, of course.

And when she answers the door, he lights up like a Christmas tree. The boy is clearly smitten. For real. He withdraws her sweater from behind his back and hands it to her, with reverence, as if it were the freaking Hope diamond. She takes it, thanks him and they say their good byes, making tentative plans to hook up the following day. Olivia runs upstairs to get her shower and I watch Nathan walk down our front path stopping every few seconds to turn back to see if Olivia might appear in the window beside the door.

I break out into a cold sweat. She is seven. SEVEN.

I have a feeling that my penance is going to be long, painful and anxiety-ridden.

Thanks, Mum.