::: true story tuesday: crushed :::

In an effort to chronicle my life for my children and grandchildren, and also to hone my writing skills, I've decided to begin a weekly feature titled True Story Tuesday. In it, I will share a true story about my life.

Jimmy was one of the most handsome men in the whole world. He had wavy black hair, very big brown eyes, and the most friendly smile ever. I knew that our lives together would be very happy, and that he would treat me like a queen. Every word he spoke to me was like honey. Every look he gave me sent chills down my spine. Spending the rest of my life with Jimmy was all I could think about. I knew that I would have plenty of time to think about him, too, for the rest of my life.

Jimmy was in my first grade class.

It's so funny that a six-year-old child can have such strong romantic feelings, but I definitely did. I was very serious about Jimmy and could barely concentrate on learning my addition facts or staying inside the lines with someone as cute as he was sitting in the same room with me. And the thing about Jimmy wasn't just that he was cute. He was nice, too! He always had a polite word to say, and a nice smile on his face, and a nice answer for the teacher. There was no better word for him. He was just nice.

You would think, with as nuts about Jimmy as I was, that everyone would know how I felt. But they didn't. Not even Jimmy. He was, and remained until now, my secret crush. Sure, I've mentioned him a time or two. Why not? Jimmy and I were classmates from kindergarten all the way through graduation. But I never shared with anyone exactly how I felt about Jimmy. Not my friends, my other classmates, and especially not my parents.

As a matter of fact, I think that my relationship (or non-relationship, actually) with Jimmy was the conversation piece (or non-conversation piece, actually) that set the tone for communication (or non-communication, actually) with my parents for the rest of my life. I remember, very distinctly, sitting in my room watching T.V., because as an only child, it was totally understandable that I would have my own television in my room, and since my dad was (and still is) a T.V. junky, it only makes sense that there would be T.V.s in every room in the house, including mine. I was probably watching Sesame Street, or The Waltons or Little House on the Prairie. It seems like it was evening, so I could have been watching The Brady Bunch or Sonny and Cher, too. But I remember that I was totally immersed in the show and not really interested in having a conversation. But here came my mom. And somehow, I felt very uncomfortable with her there in my room. I sensed that she was sabotaging me, somehow, and I didn't even know what that word meant when I was six years old. But there I was, and here was this uncharacteristic visit from my mother, right in the middle of one of my favorite shows. Maybe, in all fairness, she was just trying to bond with me. Maybe she had just been thinking, like I often do as a mother, that she should be spending quality time with me instead of letting me sit in my room watching hour after hour of television. But I definitely had the feeling that I was being set up. So here she was, in my room, sitting on my beanbag chair, and she was asking me about my day at school. I may be wrong, but I don't think it was the first day of school, and it wasn't like my mother at all to ask me about my day (at least not that I remember). She just wasn't a milk-and-cookies-when-you-get-home kind of mom.

After a few seconds of chit-chat about who-knows-what, she asked me.

"So...do you have any little boyfriends?"

I knew it. Sabotage. Maybe it was in the way she tried to slip into my room and be all nicey-nice. Maybe it was because of the way she worded the question, so demeaning, "any little boyfriends." Whatever it was, it totally set me off. I, even in my little six-year-old head, was offended by my mother's allusions to my immaturity and childlike silliness.

And it was at this point that I made the decision that would affect my relationship with my mother for the rest of my life.

I lied.

"No." I answered. That was it. Nothing else.

And I went back to watching The Six Million Dollar Man or Sanford and Son, or whatever I was watching. It could even have been Hawaii Five-O, because I just wasn't paying attention anymore. All I could think of was that my mom found out, somehow, about Jimmy, and that she was trying to weasel her way into my personal life, and I just wasn't about to let her.

This was a trend that continued all through my at-home years. Never, not even once, did I share with my mother about my crushes, boyfriends or even my fiances. Somehow I knew that she had some strange ulterior motive, that she was too overprotective or jealous to be trusted with such sensitive information.

I also vowed that I would never refer to my daughters' crushes as her "little boyfriends."

And I never have.