Seven months into a relationship is, for my tuppenceworth, the ideal time to take The Boyf home to meet the parents. So, seven months in, is exactly when The Boyf met my parents. I won’t lie, in the run up to this meeting I was terrified. Terrified that they wouldn’t like him, that he wouldn’t like them, that they would like him more than they like me, or any combination of the above.
The first meeting was brief, they stopped by the flat to drop off some boxes while he was helping me pack, but then the next day we were going down the road to stay with them. We spent the morning catching up with a mutual friend from NaNoWriMo covering such mundane topics as kung-fu moves, video games, Stephanie-too-many-adjectives-for-her-own-good-Meyer, gastric surgery, aggressive silences and the days when we’ll mingle with the rest of the literati. Apparently I was somewhat subdued throughout the entire conversation; I hadn’t been aware of it and it certainly wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t as if I was bored or otherwise distracted but, instead, I was simply content to sit and listen – after all they’re good conversationalists [unlike myself].
Then – deep breath – we were parent-bound…and I think it went reasonably well. Everyone was polite and well-behaved, my parents barbequed what seemed like a zoo’s worth of food [including vege/pecastarian-friendly foods!] and we I think we’ve finally established that my little sister’s pseudo-boyf is definitely her boyf, no pseudo. Yeah, I’m pretty sure everything went fine, or at least it certainly hasn’t thrown up anything untoward so far and that was a good few days ago now. Yet another case of me over-reacting and building it up to something so much more traumatic than it could ever be in reality.
Drama Queen?! Moi?! Never!
