My nearly-fifteen year old daughter Susanne has never had a boyfriend. Well, she hasn’t if you don’t count her year-long engagement in kindergarten to Nicholas Crouthamel. Or her rebound relationship in first grade with Jackson Gallegos. Since then, though, she has had no boyfriends.  She’s plenty boy-crazy and at 5’7″ with blue eyes and long blond hair she is totally gorgeous (and wears a bigger bra size than me, WTF), but she’s saving her heart for Tim Tebow.

Or so we thought.

Recently we were staying at a Red Roof Inn on the outskirts of San Antonio. Based on the horse trailers and Chevy trucks, most of the other guests were cowboys, or something like it. Susanne’s fallback position if the whole Tim Tebow thing doesn’t pan out is to marry a World Champion Rodeo Cowboy. Runner-up will do if he has the biggest truck.

Susanne preceded me into the lobby one morning for the free breakfast. Just as she sashayed in the door, a booted, scruffy young man of the presumed cowboy variety was making his exit. He had a good ten years on her, but that didn’t dim the gleam in his eyes that glinted off his ginormous belt buckle. I locked him in my mama-death glare as I stepped quickly in behind my little filly.

Meanwhile, Susanne’s eyes had lit up, too. Oh no, I thought, ready to move between the smitten cowboy and my seriously-underage daughter. The words, “Put your tongue back in your mouth and step away from the adolescent,” were forming on my lips, when Suz turned to me.

She whispered excitedly, “They’ve got those waffle makers shaped like Texas!!” And then, because she is my daughter after all, she bolted for the food bar.

Looks like Tim Tebow is safe for now. But I’d better warn him never to get between her and breakfast.

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