Boys all get to that age, eventually, when their parents can’t touch them in public; especially their mothers. My 12 year-old son inches closer and closer to it everyday. Self-consciousness rises to his face like mercury in a thermometer when I get within two feet of him. Admittedly, the sadist that I am, torturing both him and myself, I enjoy the challenge of getting my arm around him within eyeshot of other people. Gripping his opposite shoulder with my hand, I count, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi . . .” to see how long I can hold him in that pose; his body completely rigid, his skin distancing itself from me. Today I noticed that he’s almost as tall as me and probably weighs about as much. He will soon surpass me in physical strength. The only edge I’ll have left by August, when he turns thirteen, is my ability to out-think him. So, I tried it this afternoon, standing in our front yard, the traffic on our busy street passing one car after another. I draped my right arm over his back and rested my hand on his far shoulder. He froze, certain that passengers in every car that drove by critiqued his manliness. Making a disgusted face at me, he shrugged hard to dislodge my grip. I pulled him closer and smiled, pretending to wave at a driver. His face reddened and he stepped away assertively, but I did not let go. We looked like two drunks leaning on each other for support. The time had come to affirm my authority. I moved next to him, never releasing his shoulder, snuggled up real close, leaned over, and whispered in his ear, “If you don’t hug me back, I’m going to kiss you. More than once. Until you do.” He groaned and stiffly put both arms around me, then, feeling me relax my stronghold, jumped out of range. It’ll do for now. (Lucy Adams is a syndicated columnist and the author of If Mama Don’t Laugh, It Ain’t Funny. She lives in Thomson, GA with her husband and their four children.)