Kisses are Y-U-K-E

Wow, last weekend turned into a sickly one. Come to think of it, this entire late winter season has been sickly. And, in turn, it's been really expensive, since our "for-the-purpose-of-staving-off-medical-emergency-related-bankruptcy" crap plan isn't covering much. Thanks, Highmark. You healthcare people make me want to start smoking and gain plenty of weight, so I can push my prediabetes over the edge and become disabled like everyone else.

Anyway. People here were sick again last week. And I won't even mention today's wet, hideous snow. On April 1st, for cryin' out flippin' loud.

So. Sickness. Bills related to sickness. And TAXES. And then, snow. Good times.

But this post won't address any of those things. Frankly, talking those points deeper into the ground would only further foul my mood. Instead, I'll address why kisses are yucky.

Because that's what Y-U-K-E means. It's the Marcus spelling for yucky. Kisses haven't been cool here for awhile, but they've recently crossed the threshold into really undesirable territory. Marcus is 6 now, you see. He's quite grown up (unless he loses at a game, in which case he resorts to 3-year-old behavior again). And he has these little guy pals, among whom no girls are allowed. Even the recent birthday party was a boys-only club. They're quite tough, this crowd of swaggering, running, jumping, playing 6-year-olds. And kisses—well, they're barely tolerated by my son most days, and often merely mentioning a kiss will send the child scurrying away at top speed. (It does serve me well when I want him out from underfoot.)

Hugs are also spurned, unless the boy initiates it. Which, thankfully, he sometimes still does. But it's becoming less and less frequent.

That's why I saved all those little notes he made me last year when I was away working, and why I save the occasional note that I get these days. There's a tote bag full of them hanging on our linen closet doorknob, and there it will quietly stay. Eventually, I'll probably have to remove it and hide it somewhere; the bigger and tougher he gets, the more fearful I'll become that he might just find and destroy all those darling, misspelled mementos of his once-strong love for me.

I'll keep them safe. How could I not, when they'll be so perfect for his embarrassing teenage moments?