My daughter’s break-up broke my heart. She broke up with her boyfriend for a really ridiculous reason. Said he was comparing her swim times to slower swimmers on the team. She confronted him about it, he denied it, she dumped him. Here’s the thing: he’s not a competitive jagoff. I’m sure he was not comparing her times. He’s completely supportive of her. He’s literally the nicest kid out there: he’s super smart, hard working, patient, has a great sense of humor, is really good looking but doesn’t realize it. Takes on challenges without needing bragging rights. Generous with his time. His parents are wonderful. Looks at her like the sun rises with her. He makes her thoughtful presents. Clearly makes sure she knows she is always thought of. When she struggles with anxiety, he checks in before and after school at the house. Empathetic and athletic and just an all around all american good guy. He’s been over a lot. We all thoroughly enjoy his company; he’s a positive presence. My daughter is also a rock star kid: funny, beguiling, confident with the hutzpah to walk away from toxic situations far moreso than I ever could at that age. AP Honors everything; well-traveled. The world is her oyster and she’s willing to work hard to make her space shine; she elevates everyone around her, looks out for the little guy: hosted hoco dinner for 12 kids, most of which were underclassmen without a group to go if she hadn’t extended the invite. She’s wicked smart, volunteering at the animal shelter is her downtime. Well read, diligent, inventive and creative, never takes the easy way out always pushing toward that unknown brink. I could not love or be more proud of her or my son.

Which is why the panic sets in. When your kids have historically made really good decisions – They’ve chosen good friends. They’re not drinking. They’re not promiscuous. They are the honor roll role models at school. – Life comes derailed when they make a bad one. You freak out because you want to make sure that decision, at the expense of someone else’s heartbreak, was not one to garner attention as teens can be wont to do. You freak out because that person was a solid brick of the support system your teen has established in the barrier of camaraderie needed to survive the popularity mean girl awful cool guy group think daggers of high school. You freak out because you know that a redirect to hangtime with the wrong friends can unravel all of the hard work they’ve done like tugging too hard on the random piece of yard at the trim of an heirloom sweater. You’ve had friends follow those paths; paying a high price for meaningless exploits. You have cousins and two degree of separation examples by which bad decisions derailed what could have been much less rehab riddled lives. Not that a high school break up renders your kid a meth addict. But you read Beautiful Boy. You knew it wasn’t fiction. And it scared the shit out of you.

My first boyfriend dumped me because I would not have sex with him. I’m still facebook friends with him, and my mom is friends with his mom. But at the ripe old age of 15 when I was pressured to put out, I said no. He then got mad when I refused to acquiesce and “just do anal.” I wasn’t sure how everything worked down there, was convinced you could still somehow get pregnant no matter what hole you put it in , so was no no no on all orifices. (A decision I still stand by.) So he dumped my ass and all holes attached thereto. And we both went on to live fruitful lives and be decent human beings; me being grateful still that my first sexual penetration didn’t involve taking it in the tailpipe.

This probably hits home even harder as a divorcee. Having been a bottom dweller in the sea of marital relationship sludge where you would have done anything (except anal; still no, not even with all the sliquid in the world) to salvage what you thought you had, you don’t want something really great to be cavalierly discarded. You know that the power ultimately lies with the one who is more vulnerable. The one who loves that little bit more than the other one. The one that can walk away and still survive. And even if that’s your kid, which can be a good thing, you know at some point their heart will be broken. And there’s nothing you can really do to stop it. Which is the worst of all. So you take the parental offensive: teach them to treat people, especially those that care about them, with dignity and compassion and love. Even if that love morphs from romance to friendship.

Having gone from being the rusty sub stuck in the muck at the bottom of the polluted channel to a speedboat careening across the sunlit waters of the healthy relationship you now have, you know how precious sound romantic relationships are all too well. Not enough to make you delusional, but enough to make you hopeful. You know that a high school relationship is not likely to be the one. You want your kids to experience the world, to establish themselves, to know what it’s like to be wanted and to want someone else in a selfless way that doesn’t take away from your own identity. You wish you could time capsule bottle this boy and make sure he is introduced at a point down the road where that appreciation, often requiring a lot more maturity.

They got back together two days later. I told her she cannot keep doing this to him. He doesn’t deserve it. She is better than that.

Fingers crossed. At least until the next swim meet.