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Ever since I was a little girl I have loved kissing. I come from a very, very affectionate family. In second grade I (frequently) got reprimanded for (frequently) kissing other students on the playground. I just wanted them to know that I thought they were neat, but apparently some of them didn't enjoy my means of communication. As I got older, and kissing took on an entirely new meaning, I enjoyed it even more. SOB used to call me 'The Kissing Slut' because I had smooched perhaps a good third of the boys in our high school.

Well, that might be a little but of an exaggeration, but I did get around, kissing wise. Nothing more that lip locking, however. I didn't want to get a reputation.

I have been known to beg SOB to simply make out with me on the couch for extended periods of time. He usually says no, but every now and then he throws me a bone.

However I never truly understood my capacity for kissing until my children were born. As soon as I held Sam in my arms for the first time, I could feel my lips puckering, and I don't think they've ever been the same since. When he learned to kiss me back my heart exploded into a thousand shiny pieces. Now Lucy is mastering that skill, and I am always willing to take time out of my day to practice with her.

Sam, however, has shit to do. There are trains to be pushed, balls to be kicked, snacks to be eaten. He's also started associating kissing with either leaving or going to bed. As you can imagine, this caused a sharp decline in the popularity of kissing.

Which. Is. Killing. Me.

How am I ever going to survive his teenage years?