I was a new mom, cuddling and kissing my sleeping son when my mother-in-law gave me the book "Love You Forever."

"It's the sweetest story," she said. "It really shows what it's like to be a mom."

The book, by Robert Munsch, looked cute enough. The cover showed a little boy sitting on a bathroom floor pulling toilet paper off the roll. I could relate — until I started reading it.

The book tells the story of a mom singing this tender, little song to her son: "I'll love you forever; I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be." What seemed odd to me was that she only sang it to the boy after he was asleep. She'd slip into his room and cuddle him late at night when he couldn't resist her affections.

It seemed so sad, so desperate. I was sure I would never have to steal a kiss from my little boy. His whole world centered on me and I was sure it would stay that way forever.

But like the boy in the story, my son grew up. Sometimes he would head off to school without even giving me a kiss. While I felt a pang of loss, I was comforted by the fact that I still had a little one at home to cuddle and kiss.

Sadly, the younger one outgrew my affections even faster than his older brother. By the time he finished kindergarten, he had pretty much kissed kissing goodbye. After that, he seldom wanted me to walk him to class. Mostly, we used the "kiss and go" lane. And there was no kissing; there was only going.

While sitting in traffic in this lane at school the other day, I decided to confront my son.

"You know something?" I said. "We've been using the 'kiss and go' lane for two years, and I've never once gotten a kiss."

I heard him huff in the back seat and looked in the rearview mirror to catch him rolling his eyes.

"Mom," he said, impatiently. "They just call it that. It doesn't mean you have to kiss."

I begged to differ.

"It's not just the 'go' lane," I protested. "It's 'KISS and go.'"

I could tell that my 8-year-old was annoyed, but, since I had his attention, I decided to milk it a little. I told him that, according to my calculations, deducting for days he was out sick and days his dad drove him to school in the last two years, I estimated that he owed me 300 kisses.

"You'd better pucker up," I said. "It's time to start paying."

He stifled a smile and yelled, "Never!"

I wanted to shift into park, reach into the back seat and plant one right on his cheek. But to keep the line moving, I did the next best thing. I threatened to call an attorney.

"But mom," my son said, "I'm too young to get a lawyer."

As the car came to a stop and he climbed out, he said, "I'm going to get my friends to rubber-band you."

On the way to school a few days later, he explained that rubber-banding me meant he would get his fellow second-graders to fire rubber bands at me until I agreed not to pursue the lawsuit.

"You weren't serious about that, were you, Mom?" he said.

I told him my lawyer had advised me not to discuss it, and then I let him out of the car.

For the record, I did contact a big-time Texas lawyer (i.e. my friend Mary's husband, Tommy). He thinks I have a case.

"It's the quid pro quo for the ride every morning," Tommy said, somehow managing not to laugh. "It is a contract, even if it's not written."

We even discussed the possibility of a class-action suit. There were bound to be other moms out there who'd had this same kind of trouble collecting on kisses.

"I've heard rumblings," Tommy said. "From Kansas City that there's a 'peck and go' lane and from Denver there's a 'smooch and scoot.'"

But before taking up the cause on behalf of moms everywhere, my attorney advised me to at least offer to settle out of court.

I told my son I would drop 100 kisses from my claim and settle for just 200 if he began payments immediately. He refused.

Since he won't budge, I'm going to move forward on my lawyer's advice to go ahead and start the process of collecting.

Right after my little boy goes to sleep.

Contact Kim Grizzard at kgrizzard@coxnc.com or 329-9578.