There is little in the world of parenting that strikes more fear into your core than “Hey mom, a girl gave me her phone number! Awesome, right?”

No. That is not awesome.

I admit, Wheels is going to have no problem catching a girl’s attention and heart.  He is tall, 4 foot 5 at seven, blonde hair and stormy blue eyes, but it is his effervescent, extroverted personality that will seal the deal. He is sporty, wild even, a man in his own world and game for anyone to join his ranks. Yet, the kid oozes chivalry, poise, and total intrigue and interest for the opposite sex.

When he was two, he would lean his body against the grocery cart, chin tilted down, cheek on full display, and with his eyes slightly closed and sideways, his sweet little voice would soulfully peep to the cashier, “Give me a kiss!?”  Shocked laughter, but the cashiers knew, he had that twinkle.

Ever since preschool, little girls constantly chased and punched him on the playground. Upon entering Kindergarten, when the girl/drama ratio exploded, we had to have a long discussion about the complexities of girl behavior; them vying for his attention through violence and screaming in packs,  that it was ok to say “no get off me!”, and if they don’t, you can hold their arms off of you while you call for the teacher, but never hit a girl.

He understood, but they were confusing.

I had solace in that notion.  Girls are great, but crazy.  Girls give me attention and that’s great, but still crazy.

That same year, our family traveled to visit friends abroad, and we met up with my husband’s friends in a pub.  One of them had a vivacious, outgoing red headed flame of a two year old girl, who grabbed Wheels’ attention and he never looked back.  The rest of the afternoon he held her hand while she stepped down the single step, or “caught” her while she pretend fell into his arms; him always looking shocked that she fell and she, staring into his blue eyes, would thank him and laugh as he helped her back up for another round.  It was the cutest display of a kid soap opera.

This single interlude, was the shift. The light bulb, which shone bright and illuminated the idea that not all girls are crazy, they can be fun and I like that. Thanks Luna.

Small interactions then became weird. His adorable teenage babysitter would hug him goodbye, and due to his height, his hands would land directly on her bum.  His granny would hug him to say good job, and due to his height, his head would land right in the middle of her large bosom. I would watch his eyes during these incidents, half closed and cheekily sideways.

After a few discussions on appropriate behavior and hand positioning, the sudden surge of interest has since been at peace.

Rushing to complete dinner before Stewie passed the threshold of too tired to eat, I heard Wheels’ proud declaration,  “Hey mom, a girl gave me her phone number! Awesome, right?”

Slow turn. Eye to eye, a fast high-pitched “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, she said I need to call her over the summer so I can go to her lemonade stand.  I have to call her.  I promised mom, she is super awesome,” fishing through his pocket he pulls out a folded wad, “See, here it is.  Don’t loose it.  You’ll want lemonade too, right?”

Spinning off to play, I opened the paper with a wince. There were ten digits scrawled on the paper, in no particular order.  Whew… inexperience is beautiful thing.