Boys Don't Kiss

(from Reader's Digest, November, 1996)

Bedtime, and the house is almost quiet. Nathan is in his bed. Though only five years old his room is filled with the boy-type items that mark his territory. There are army men scattered around, basketballs, footballs, and action figures on the floor. There is a picture of a cougar on the wall. Eyes closed, thumb in motion, he is nearly asleep. Some nights he loves his covers, both to keep warm and as a hiding place, his clubhouse. Tonight, though, the covers are tucked under his armpits. He lies quietly, contemplating playing with Michael Jordan when he grows up and joins the NBA. I smile and lean down to kiss him. But as I draw near, he turns a startled face to me and dives under the covers. The muffled words plead: 'Don't KISS ME!" My five-year-old defender of the world from ghosts and goblins hates kisses.

What is a kiss, anyway? A pucker, a smack, a smooch, a brushing of lips. there are passionate kisses and polite kisses, long heartfelt kisses and short pecks. There are kisses you anticipate all evening long and those that take you by surprise. Nathan and I had a whole zoo of kisses: elephant kisses, butterfly kisses, giraffe kisses, rhino kisses, eskimo kisses and so on. But I am talking about the kind of kiss that is as involuntary as breathing -- a parent's kiss for a child.

Once upon a time my kisses were magical. They could heal scraped knees and bruised egos, warm cold fingers and dampened spirits. Recently, though, they are anathema, to be avoided like slime, kryptonite and lima beans. My little football player does an end run around my outstretched arms. If I catch him off guard, he groans and wipes the spot with a fury that would shame Lady Macbeth.

"I'm sorry, I forgot," I say as he gets in the car when I pick him up at school. When we get home I ask, "Why do you hate kisses, anyway?"

"Because they're yucky?" he says, sighing and unzipping his Kansas City Chief jacket.

"Why are they yucky?" I persist, pulling a sleeve off his arm.

""Because they're wet," he snaps pulling off his other sleeve and disappearing down the hall, leaving me with an empty jacket and the image of a teacher I had as a child. i can't remember her name, but let's call her Mrs. Down.

I remember Mrs. Down as old and had a hump on her back -- she must have been 35 years old. Once a week the whole class would get together around the piano in the back of the classroom and we would sing songs like "America, the Beautiful" and "Roll On, Columbia." If one of us had a birthday that week, we would all sing "Happy Birthday" and then Mrs. Down would give us a birthday kiss, something that could never happen in today's schools.

Kissing Mrs. Down was pretty awful, but getting her kiss back was even worse. Wet and slobbery is how I still imagine it. "You kiss like a dog," I once told her matter-of-factly. And one birthday celebration I remember I bumped my head diving under a school desk to avoid the smack. This only gave me a bump and an extra peck to "make it feel better", a deeper humiliation.

My son, the future NBA Star, has finished his bath and is putting on Kansas City Chief pajamas. Kneeling in front of him, I throw a towel on his head and start drying his hair.

"Nathan," I say, looking him in the eye, "does your mom kiss you when you visit her?' His mother and I had been divorced about a year and I have custodial care of him.

"Yeah, but that's different. She's a girl and they have to kiss people."

"Guys like to kiss the people they love," I tell him, but one look tells me that he doesn't believe me. Can I have one quick kiss? I won't tell anybody."

He studies me as one might a slow learner. "I hate kisses."

"But isn't your dad the one person who can give you a kiss now and then? I feed you and clean you and take care of you. I will never leave you."

He puts his hands on my cheeks and leans toward me until our faces almost touch. His unblinking blue eyes peer into mine, and he whispers softly, "Only when I'm bleeding." Then he steps back and grins.

It is our secret. There is still some magic left.