Last night I witnessed, for the very first time, my daughter being flirted with by an older boy.
Now he’ll be a fine catch in 20 years or so, thanks to his pretty fine mama. But it was beyond strange to see sweet, rambunctious little little four-and-a-half year-old boy batting his long lashes at my not-quite-in-preschool little girl.
The interactions were entirely innocent of course. He wanted Thalia to watch him climb a jungle gym. He showed her how fast he could run. He held a door open for her. He asked to pick her up (then promptly dropped her on the ground). He drew her little pictures on sticky notes then pressed them into a book for her. He showed her his Aerosmith shirt.
He told her he wanted to be her big brother. Which, really? Heart-melting.
I was surprised at how protective I suddenly felt of her. That I didn’t want her to feel too flattered or too honored to be the object of some boy’s affection, no matter how adorable and blue-eyed that some boy happened to be. I was particularly happy that while he was drawing her flowers, she was attempting to draw her own and not simply admiring his.
In other words, she was age-appropriately oblivious. Way to go, T-Bone. Keep it up for thirteen more years.
Hey, wait…how’s your throwing arm?