When I was four years old, my mom shipped me off to day-care after she rejoined the workforce. My parents worked late hours so I was usually the last one to leave, and always in a state of fear that no one would come to pick me up. (It actually came true once when there was a huge snowstorm and my parents couldn’t make it. My teacher and her boyfriend gave me a ride home in a Jeep.)
My daycare was like a revolving door for little tykes – someone would come or go every week. One day there was a new Latin girl who didn’t speak a lot of English. She sat across from me at lunch and I made sure to not make any eye contact with her. After a couple days, the other kids were making fun of me, something about me and her sitting in a tree. At the end of her third or fourth day, she came up to me, smiled, and gave me a huge, wet kiss. I was in total shock, so when I got home I did what any other shy four year old would do: I cried… a lot. I told my mom what happened and she called all my relatives to tell them the exciting news. She was proud of her son. The next day she mentioned the incident to my teacher because I was seriously scared to go back to daycare. Then suddenly, the Latin girl stopped coming to school. It would be decades until I would experience Latin lips again. When it comes to romance, I’ve always been my own worst enemy.