“It’s about a boy, isn’t it?” Emma asked.
“What? What makes you say that?”
“Because, Mama, it’s always about a boy. Am I right? I’m totally right, right?”
“You might be,” I said.
“I knew it! That’s how come you’re acting so squiggly all of the time.”
“Squiggly, huh? I don’t think I’ve ever heard that used as an adjective for a person before.”
“That’s how you’ve been acting, though,” she insisted. “What’s his name?”
“Who?” I asked, teasing her.
“The boy, silly!”
“Oh, you’re right, silly me. His name is Drew.”
“Does he have a last name?” she asked.
“What are you, my mother?”
“Come on! I just want to know!”
“Yes, he has a last name. It’s Larson. His name is Drew Larson.”
“Is he
a good one?” she asked seriously.
I stared at my daughter, wondering where on earth she had learned to ask that. This was exactly the kind of thing I’d been worried about having to talk to her about, although I hadn’t realized it. It was a good question, but it was one I wasn’t sure how to answer.
I wanted him to be a good one. I knew that. I’d wanted that badly enough to break my cardinal rule about dating pilots before I had even known him at all. The more time I spent with him, the more I wanted that, but I still couldn’t be sure. I wasn’t sure how long you had to know a man to know if he was a good one or not. There was a part of me that thought that after the loss of Matt, I would never know if a man was a “good one” or not. It was certainly not the kind of question I felt up to answering on the fly, while my ten-year-old watched me with narrowed, skeptical eyes.
“He’s a pilot, so that means he’s not a loser,” I said. “So yes, I guess you could say he’s a good one.”
“No, Mama.” She rolled her eyes before looking at me like I was the most foolish woman on the planet. “That’s not what makes a boy a good one. It’s not the kind of job he has.”
“No?”
“Nope. Not the job.”
“What is it, then?” I asked.
“It’s about whether or not he wants to put a ring on it!”
My mouth dropped open, and Emma broke into a massive fit of giggles. She jumped up, our game momentarily forgotten, and broke into the whole Beyonce song and dance. It was another one of those things I’d never suspected she’d picked up on at such a young age, and the shock of the comment had startled me badly.
“Emma! Emma, sweetie, hold on. Stop that for a minute and sit down.”
“Okay, but just so you know, that song’s awesome,” she said, grinning.
“I’m not saying anything about the song, but it’s not always about putting a ring on it. You know that, right?”
“Sure, it is. Why else would you want to date a boy?”
“Are you going to be looking at every boy as a maybe husband when you’re allowed to start dating?” I asked.