First Crush

For the past several months, my son has had a crush on a girl at school.

It wasn’t until recently that he finally opened up and shared his heart’s intent with me, but I’d had my suspicions.

There are certain unmistakable signs that a preteen boy is falling in love.

Improved hygiene, for one.

Suddenly, my son was showering more thoroughly and actually using the soap and shampoo. A huge feat when you’re parenting a preteen. He began getting ready for school a half hour earlier than usual, paying careful attention to his wardrobe and hair. Dressing out of the hamper and walking out the door with bed head was apparently SO yesterday.

Then came the request for a lesson on the proper application of deodorant, followed by an inquiry as to whether he should start wearing cologne.

But perhaps the most telling sign was his newfound affection for Mondays.

He would walk around on weekends forlorn, seemingly counting the hours until Monday morning arrived. With the possible exception of pastors and priests, I don’t know anyone who looks forward to Mondays.

Clearly, this was serious.

One afternoon, while driving home from Baskin-Robbins (please don’t tell my Weight Watchers instructor), my son turned to me and asked a question I wasn’t expecting.

“Mom, what does it feel like to be in love?”

There are questions your children ask that make you realize, without warning, that they’re growing up right beside you. One minute you’re reminding them to use shampoo. The next, they’re asking you to explain one of the great mysteries of the human experience.

What does it feel like to be in love?

Why… it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.

It’s euphoric and beautiful. Silly and tender. Invigorating and heart-thumping. It makes ordinary things feel extraordinary. A glance can sustain you for an afternoon. A hallway can become the place where your entire future might be decided.

And apparently, Monday morning becomes something to look forward to.

Then he asked me about my first crush.

I love when my son asks about my childhood. It gives me the chance to introduce him to the person I was before I was Mom. And I think there’s something comforting for him in discovering that I’ve been where he is, that all of these strange and wonderful feelings are simply part of growing up.

My first great love arrived in fifth grade.

His name was Mr. Pontes.

My teacher.

I fell madly, deeply and unabashedly in love with him.

He was gorgeous, by a ten-year-old’s standards. I was giddy with excitement at the beginning of each school day and devastated when the final bell rang. That meant a long bus ride home and an entire night of counting the hours until I could be reunited with my beloved.

Apparently, love hasn’t changed much in a generation. My son had discovered shampoo.

I discovered perfect attendance.

In an effort to impress Mr. Pontes, I worked diligently on every assignment. This was important. If we were eventually going to build a life together, he needed to know he was marrying his intellectual equal.

Never mind that one of us had a college degree and the other was still mastering long division.

I had also read somewhere that men liked women with long, silky hair, so I kept mine long and perfectly combed. I could have been in a coma or traction and I would not have missed a day of school.

I watched Mr. Pontes with adoration as he glided through the classroom, dispensing his knowledge upon us. I found him absolutely dreamy.

I loved everything about being in love with him: the butterflies, the exhilaration, the anticipation, the sheer joy of being in the same room with the object of my affection.

And I was quite certain Mr. Pontes felt the same way.

Naturally, he couldn't reveal his feelings. He was my teacher, after all. There were professional standards to maintain.

In my ten-year-old mind, his professionalism was not evidence that he didn’t love me.

It was evidence of extraordinary restraint.

When he called in sick one day and left us with a substitute teacher, I was furious.

How dare he not consider my feelings?

There was, of course, the minor complication of our 20-year age difference.

And his wife.

And their two children.

Details.

I was convinced that Mr. Pontes was every bit as enraptured with me as I was with him and had simply decided to wait patiently until I turned 18. At that point, he would divorce his wife, profess his undying love for me, we would marry, have seven children and live happily ever after.

I had no idea, of course, that this plan technically positioned me as a homewrecker.

Great.

A homewrecker at ten.

Clearly, my moral development had not kept pace with my romantic ambitions.

Then, one Friday afternoon, it happened.

“Lori, may I speak with you in the hall?”

This was it.

After months of stolen glances, academic excellence and impeccably combed hair, the man could resist me no longer.

With heart-pounding anticipation and a sweet dizziness, I followed him into the hallway.

He asked me to sit down and crouched beside me.

Oh my heavens.

He’s going to propose.

Never mind that I was ten, he was thirty, and I still needed permission to go to the bathroom.

Love apparently recognizes no administrative boundaries.

“Lori…” Mr. Pontes began.

“Yes?” I said, ready to leap from my chair, throw my arms around his neck and kiss him passionately.

Well, as passionately as a ten-year-old knows how to kiss.

“Ms. Almeda informed me that you were somewhat unruly in the lunchroom today and, despite repeated warnings, you chose not to modify your behavior. Is this true?”

My heart sank.

He was not going to propose.

Worse.

I was in trouble.

How utterly humiliating.

I wished for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. This could not be happening. Mr. Pontes was the love of my life, and I was standing before him a convicted lunchroom anarchist.

I burst into tears.

I confessed to everything.

I apologized incessantly.

For my punishment, I had to write all 50 states and their capitals three times.

For days afterward, I had knots in my stomach and behaved sheepishly around him. The fantasy had been shattered. The future Mrs. Pontes had fallen from grace.

By day two, I realized I was experiencing something entirely new.

Heartbreak.

Sadly, it would not be my last encounter with that particular emotion.

I finished fifth grade still deeply admiring Mr. Pontes, but I was no longer in love with him.

I was much more mature now.

Mr. Pontes was SO yesterday.

Besides, I had moved on.

I was now crazily in love with Erik Estrada.

At least he wasn’t married with a family.

I find myself thinking about that little girl now as I watch my son experience his first crush.

I remember how enormous those feelings seemed. How one person could suddenly make school more exciting, weekends unbearably long and Monday morning something worth counting down to.

And I remember how real it all was.

That's perhaps the most important thing for me to remember as his mother. His first crush may someday become a funny childhood story, just as Mr. Pontes became one of mine. But right now, to him, these feelings aren't small simply because he's young.

They're enormous.

Sitting beside him that afternoon, I realized my son was taking his first few steps down a road I know well.

There will be butterflies and awkward conversations. There will probably be ridiculous decisions and, almost certainly, heartbreak. There may be people he loves for a season and, someday, perhaps someone he loves for a lifetime.

I can’t walk that road for him.

I wouldn’t want to.

But right now, he’s still willing to let me walk beside him.

And that may be one of the sweetest parts of watching him grow up.

Besides, any girl who can get my son to voluntarily use shampoo has already earned a special place in my heart.