Kisses.

What happens when a mother becomes an overachiever kisser. This story is about a young boy who must deal with such an overachiever.

Kisses

I have a problem. My Mom is the prettiest, kindest, most loving person I know, but she's weird.

She told me she wanted to give me a million kisses before she turned sixty-four. She says it will take another forty trips around the sun to get that old.

"How many times a day do you need to kiss me to get that many kisses?" I asked.

She took out her calculator, punched in some numbers, looked smart and very pretty, kissed me on the top of my head, and said, "Oh, 69 kisses a day will do it."

"Do I get a holiday?" I asked.

"Then I'll fall behind," she said.

"I guess I'll have to run away from home," I said as I ran up the stairs to start packing.

She ran after me, dragged me out from under the bed, and kissed me on the forehead. "That's number 38," she said, a big smile creasing her face.

"Okay," I said, "you got me. Finish today's kisses and leave me alone for the rest of the day. I've got to pack."

Mom's smile changed to a pucker as she kissed me, counting loudly to 31.

Mom gives slobbery kisses and uses lots of red lipstick. After her 31 kisses, I looked like a raspberry.

I went to the bathroom to scrub it off. My Mom must use permanent marker as her lipstick. It's hard to get off. My white washcloth is worn thin and very red, and my face is sore.

By the time I got the lipstick off, it was supper time, so I didn't get any packing done.

After supper, I had to go straight to bed, so I didn't finish packing.

When I was ready for bed, my Mom came in to tuck me in, but she didn't kiss me. It's funny, but I missed that kiss.

The next morning Mom woke me up with a batch of kisses. I scrambled to get my clothes on and scrub my face.

To avoid Mom, I skipped breakfast and dashed for the school bus. Mom ran behind me. "Wait," she called.

"Open the door, open the door," I yelled to the bus driver.

The bus driver used to this daily drill, closed the door when I climbed the steps. Mom crashed into the door and cried, "He needs his goodbye kisses."

All the students laughed, even the bus driver.

"Your mother is a helicopter mom," the driver said, "always hovering over you."

"She is more like a drone," I said, "with kiss bombs."

Mom enrolled me on a baseball team. How she convinced me to play, I'll never know. Mom volunteered to be the first base coach. Disaster awaited if she didn't reach 69 kisses before the game.

On my first at-bat in my first game, I got a hit, ran to first, and as I passed, Mom grabbed me to give me several kisses. "But, Mom, it could have been a double," I whined.

Mom changed the subject. "Stop your whining. The third base coach is signaling you to steal second. I'll meet you there to give you a few more kisses."

I squirmed away and ran to the second base on the first pitch to escape the woman with the busy lips. I was safe at second base, but Mom was slow and tagged out by the second baseman. The umpire made her return to first base.

It was so embarrassing. The next at-bat, I ran over the pitcher's mound, straight to second base, skipping first base altogether. When the umpire called me out, I decided to save myself the embarrassment and strike out the next time on three pitches. Mom's kisses were hurting my game, and my batting average!

Running away from home is complicated when kisses constantly interrupt my packing, and Mom is always near enough to stop me and give me another kiss.

One day Mom came with good news. "You're going to have a baby sister."

Getting ready for a new baby was hard, and Mom was so busy she started to forget and skip some kisses. One day she said, "I can't keep up. From now on, I'll kiss you only once in the morning and once when I tuck you into bed."

"Hurray," I thought, "no more raspberry face."

"I think that can work," I told Mom.

Don't tell Mom, but I like the night kiss the best.