4 In Italia

Now that his relationship is “Facebook Official” I asked the young swain to introduce us to his first girlfriend.

Okay, actually I said: “You’re dating, and you’re sixteen years old. It’s time for your parents to clap their eyes on the young lass. And for her father to scare the bejeebers out of you, just so no one gets any ideas.”

He made a sound like a badger being executed.

I continued parenting:

“You two text constantly. You have communicated with her more in the past three weeks than with anyone else in your entire sixteen years. Combined.”

He snorted, but his phone buzzed to report a new text. I saw an eyelash rise in recognition, then flicker in panic.

“How do I know what you two are talking about? You could be plotting to kill us in our sleep, or to hitchhike to Alaska to work in a salmon cannery.” (Not that anyone would do that.)

“Mom, you’re weird.”

“Exactly. It’s genetic. She should know what horrors lurk in your DNA.”

Wait for it….

“Mom, you’re creepy.”

“Actually, this is called ‘parenting.’  I’m not picking out bridesmaid dresses for your wedding, we just have to meet her. Your parents need to know who your friends are.”

Since then I’ve asked several times for a Meet the Parents update. She’s even more appalled than he is. She’s either really shy, or doesn’t want us to know that they are planning to kill us in our sleep.

But we are making progress; weeks ago we were forbidden to so much as speak her name. Kind of like Voldemort, but with cuter outfits.

This morning, as I was standing knee-deep in Christmas tree needles, with post-holiday wreckage in every nook and cranny, he ventured: “Maybe today would be a good day for her to come to our house?”

Today would be great, except that today the house looks as festive as Santa’s Workshop, if Santa was a hoarder, and the toy production line was hit by a tsunami. Next weekend is also out; we’ll be away.

He just bought himself two weeks.

Well played, Sir.