Debating The Existence of Sasquatch

When my children reached an age where they could start dating, I was all for it.

I welcomed every Tom, Dick and Harry that my daughter brought home. 

I embraced every Emily and any other young woman who gave even a glimmer of hope that my son might, eventually...well, move out.

I was the mother of all mothers, nurturing young lives, encouraging love, counseling as needed.  Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

Helicopter parent?  I was the Queen of Hover Flight.

I welcomed them, fed them, conversed about their dreams and possible futures with my children.  Their offspring would be my offspring, a pooling of protoplasm bound to change the world.

I fell in love with each and every one.

I made sweetie's favorite chocolate cake, just because.  I took honey boy's phone calls, every afternoon, just to hear him talk about my daughter and how he might make her happy.

We played Twister.

No one dared to question my commitment, and so it came with some degree of surprise when my power train failed.

One weekend I hosted an out-of-state, vegetarian girlfriend.  She was big on green beans and rich desserts. 

Unfortunately, she was here the same time as the "I'm allergic to all tomato products" boyfriend.  He didn't like any vegetables, wasn't big on pork or pancakes, and tried to avoid all milk products.

It was "Hell's Kitchen" in its finest hour.

And, it was about the time the girlfriend asked if she could stay for nine days over the holidays, and the boyfriend said my meatloaf would surely give him diarrhea, that my propeller came off.

"Loose stool, my friend, is a fact of life.  Now man up and eat!"

"And you, you with the spinach between your teeth, allow me to introduce you to my buddy, Mr. Hampton."

The times, they were a changin'.

But, still, the breakups were hard.  I've never seen so many tears.

"Mom," my daughter pleaded, "please stop crying."

So, I gave up on emotional investment and established new rules.

"Kids," I said, "I'm done with the meet and greet.  I don't want to know, feed or play board games with your dates.  In fact, don't involve me at all, unless there is a planned wedding, invitations printed.  I simply cannot stand the pain."

I wanted to mean it.

And then along came Sasquatch, a bipedal humanoid who has purportedly dated my daughter for six months without a sighting.

She says his name is Jared.  She says he's a psych major, a stand-up comedian, a hard-working man. 

I pretended not to care, but four months into their relationship, my hubby said we'd better have a look-see.

"We need to know who we're dealing with," he argued.  "He could be an ax murderer, a transvestite, or, God forbid, a Democrat."

At first Jared was working too much, three part-time jobs we were told.

A free weekend developed, but Jared had a family commitment.

Then had had to travel out of state for an "American Idol" audition.

Yeah, right.

The excuses kept coming.  Jared did not.

Jared has not.

Man or myth?  Local legend or genuine creature?

More information is needed.  After all, I have a dinner menu to plan.