The Trollop

Being the mother of a daughter, I have envied my friends who have sons. “They will always love you,” I tell my buddies. “A son loves his mother no matter how many shrinks he sees. Not true of daughters.”

My friend Kathleen has the perfect seventeen-year-old son. Aside from the fact that he has eyes with lashes longer than my sixth grade jump rope, he is nice and actually enjoys going places with his parents. They take him skiing, to the country on weekends, and even out to dinner during the week. He is perfect.

Kathleen called me early yesterday.

“Something’s up, something big. A trollop called him twice yesterday afternoon, and now he just rushed out of here with his roller blades.”

“Well, call me as soon as you know anything, but I’m sure she’s a slut.”

I received an text later in the afternoon. I think she took to her bed and couldn’t talk on the phone. It reads.

“Sam and I went for a ride in the car and saw him with her in the Park. She has perky breasts and long brown hair. What do I do now?”

My response was immediate.

“There is nothing you can do. Life as you have known it is over. He’s not going to want to want to go skiing anymore. He’s going to ask to stay home and you can’t let him or you will be grandparents before he graduates high school.”

An hour later, I receive the following.

“How can I thank you for your support?”

I pick up the phone.

“It’s me. I am being supportive; I just want you to be realistic.”

“Do you think I should put condoms in his room?”

“ABSOLUTELY not!!!! That would be like telling him you’re going to be there through the whole thing and he will never be able to get it up until you are dead.”

Last night my friend drove her son and the trollop to the movies. They actually sat in the back seat of the car and she was in the front like Jeeves.

“Why didn’t you let Sam drive them?” I asked impatiently. Talk about gluttons for punishment.

“Because he’s sick.”

“It better be terminal.”

“Did he kiss her goodnight at the door?”

“I don’t know, I had to park a bit ahead of the house because there was no room at the curb.”

“Why didn’t you sneak out the car and peek out from behind the trunk?”

“Because I didn’t think of it and you weren’t there to tell me what to do.”

“Next time, call me.” This should really be easier.

It’s now Sunday night and the trollop is over watching Netflix in the family room with the no longer perfect son. Sam and Kathleen are stuck up in their room wondering if they can come down and go out to dinner. I have spoken to her twice during the last hour, and she has finally come to grips with the fact that she is going to be bitter shortly.

My daughter, who is now in her thirties, is perfect in every way. I take it all back. Daughters are better than sons for sure.