Mamma Mia.

In the middle of a panel discussion on industry best practices in the mobile marketplace this afternoon (yawn, I know), the young man to my left passed me the following note:

Hey, you seem really cool, I have to get back to the office but I’d really like to get to know you better! Give me a call, maybe we can get coffee sometime. –Brad, (xxx) xxx-xxxx.

Aww! Kind of sweet. Even though I think this Brad character is likely barely 21 and an admitted intern, and even though we spoke for about three seconds before the speakers started doing their thing, the gesture was flattering. Got to give it to the guy.

I thought about Brad on my ride home, and for most of my indentured servitude in the gym earlier. Well, perhaps not him specifically. More like the idea of him.

“I wonder if mom would like him if he’s who I was dating.” That’s what I was thinking. “Maybe Brad would be really pleasing to her.”

My mom is not a natural fan of J’s.

There are a million things I love about my mom, and on the scale of mothers world-wide, she gets an 11.5 out of 10. She’s amazing. On this landscape, though, the smallest of aberrations, the most minute cordons of barbed wire, can really mar the picture.

Mom’s never been really enthusiastic about any men that I’ve dated, with mostly good reason and with relatively little protest. “Ah, mom,” we’d say. “She’ll never be satisfied.” It didn’t really matter. Until now. It matters so much to me now.

I want her to like J. I need her to see how much I love him, that I love him for the right reasons, and that he adores me.

She gave me a whole little lecture series over Christmas about how she didn’t understand what I saw in him, didn’t buy it when I said we were such a good fit, wanted to be sure I wasn’t losing out on making friends and finding opportunities because I was so wholly in this relationship.

Fair points, all. But she’d met the guy only twice, and neither under ideal circumstances. First was last winter, when the whole family came out to DC. Our relationship was new, and we had a slight argument over something stupid that ended up making me cry. That wasn’t so good.

Then he came home with me to Seattle last Memorial Day, but he’d broken his collarbone about a month before; he was still hyped up on medication and wearing a really awkward brace. That was pretty unfortunate, too.

This is all she’s using to worry that I’m wrecking my life. I appreciate her concern so much, but it’s hard to keep it impersonal. I don’t want to tailor my life to please her, but her approval is so valuable to me.

They’re coming for mother’s day, my parents, and they’ll be here tomorrow. Instead of running around furtively gathering all evidence of my heathen lifestyle—J’s toothbrush and deodorant, my birth control—and instead of piling dresses and sweaters on top of the clothes on J’s shelf in my closet, I’m just sitting here agonizing about the whole thing. Wondering why she doesn’t think we’re a fit. Scared she’s right.

She specifically requested to not see him on mother’s day, which I still find a bit harsh. “We’re coming to see you,” she wrote in an e-mail. “I respect his place in your life, so maybe he could come over one night besides Sunday and we could cook something.” Between the lines I’m reading “we don’t want to consider the possibility of him as family, we don’t even want to take him out, get the picture, we don’t like you dating him, now move on along.”

True, they’re coming from really far away. It makes sense, and I understand. But still, what is this?

I (stealthily) encouraged J to go back home and spend mother’s day with his mom, which happily he’s doing. But at what cost? He’ll miss my parents entirely this trip. Maybe it’ll be good; will give me a chance to show them that I’m just as much me without him by my side. Let them see that I’m strong and dynamic, that I take care of me and make good choices. Maybe.

In my head, this weekend will be spectacular. “Our daughter can do no wrong!” they’ll be singing at the end of it. “She’s amazing and brilliant beyond compare, and confidence is her middle name! If she chooses him, we’ll love him! Too bad we missed him! He’s the best!” This will be set to music, of course, and we’ll all be holding hands and smiling ridiculously as we tap dance down the accordion thing to their airplane home. Maybe. Maybe all it needs is time.

Poor Brad probably has his phone on maximum volume tonight. He’ll never here from me, and maybe he’ll be disappointed for awhile. But in time, it won’t mean a thing. In time, it’ll all smooth over, and the rearview mirror will remember nothing. For slightly more selfish reasons, this girl’s wishing on exactly that star tonight.