While cleaning out Cera’s book bag yesterday, I found a little love note. It has a big heart, immersed in what looks like a field of grass, drawn on the front and the words “I love you Cera” scrawled on the inside in that cute kindergarten handwriting, and it’s signed by …
Oh, no, not that kid!
Not the one whom I swore (internally, of course) I would never take to Lunch Bunch again after he freaked out so badly over a bee (and no, he’s not allergic – I asked) that I had to cut our reading short and head back inside, even after I had smashed the offending insect with a book and offered up the carcass as proof of its death.
Not the one who curled up in my lap and cried through much of the second half of “The Polar Express” on class field trip day, asking for his mommy over and over again as I held his hand and tried desparately to calm him.
Why couldn’t it be the kindergarten cutie? Or the top athlete? Or even the class clown?
Why does it have to be the sensitive boy? The one who cries at the drop of a hat. The one who is obviously a mama’s boy, something I always found to be a deal breaker in my own relationships.
Now, wait a second, Jamie. Don’t get carried away here. They’re only in kindergarten. This crush isn’t going anywhere.
And I guess the kid does have one thing going for him.
He has impeccable taste in girls.