Every speaker of the car, in every row, is singing carols. I’m even gladly enduring The Carpenters who start to wear on me after 23 days of jolly. But we’re on break for the holidays and there’s a freedom I can’t escape.

“Say whoop, whoop if you’re excited for Christmas!”
“Me! I am the most!” they all say.

Except for my oldest who is being blasé with lips around a drinkable applesauce.

“Let’s try that again.”
With glorious fist-bumps I repeat it.
“Me! I am the most! Me.”

Fine.

We are bobbing our heads, I am speeding a little.

“Mom?” asks my son.
“Yeah?”
“Do you know how to French kiss?”

I may have swerved. It’s a bit of a blur.

“Yeah buddy, I do. How did you hear about it?”
“A kid at school told me.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“When you stick your tongue in someone’s mouth.”

Keep. Calm. Remember to use an even tone. And breathe.
I mean, I probably knew about this at six. Did I?
He’s six!

“Yep, you’re right.”
“They said they knew how.”

Is that right?

“A kid in your class has done this?”
“No, they just know how.”

I can begin to see the lines on the road once more. Consciousness is returning.

“I’ve only done that with Daddy. It’s something you do when you’re older.” Like on your 50th birthday. Maybe. “You’ll love it. When you’re older.” Did I mention to him that he’ll need to be older?

Chase and I have made it a point to remove any shame with matters like these.
Your body? It’s wonderful. Save it like a present.
Sex? You won’t believe it. Worth the wait.
French kissing? You’ll be amazed at how long you can do this activity when it’s new. Be very selective.

It’s probably a good thing he’s in the seat behind me, his face blocked by my headrest. He’s my blusher, my giggler.

Dear boy, keep being bashful. Stay innocent for as long as you can.