Signed,

I've got a thing for Maisie's first grade teacher--her teacher from three years ago. His mother used to be my ballet teacher when I was a kid. He's painfully shy, surprisingly prosaic, loves the kids, has a nice smile. He writes beautifully. He's extremely circumspect. He's shorter than me. He might be gay; there is that impediment to dealing with my thing. Liam is now in first grade, and this teacher has moved up to teaching second grade, and so until Liam is through second grade--look how I have this mapped--I figure all things must be as they are: perfectly friendly, perfectly circumspect--because, well, that's how things are. Could be that's how things are because he's gay; my neighbor thinks he is. Could be I'm just not his type. But what does it cost me to entertain it?

But that's not the story.

Three years ago I sent this guy a family Christmas card. Standard teacher card: "Best wishes for the holidays." And I signed our three names. A week later we got a card back from him. "Merry Christmas to all of you! Love, John."

I honestly didn't know it was from him. I couldn't think of any Johns I knew who'd sign with love, and there was no return address. All the kids' teachers sign their cards with love, but it's different when the teacher is male--and when he signs with his first name. No? Am I wrong? Maisie was startled; she shares my crush, though she doesn't know about mine, and she still has that card propped up on her dresser.

Two years ago: we write our Christmas cards, and send one to him, and this time I sign our names with love, too. Because I guess it's OK. Though I admit I felt a little odd about it--a little, oh, exposed. His card comes back a week later. "Fondly, John."

Hmmph. I laughed, but was embarrassed. Maisie was pissed. "Fondly? FONDLY??" That card was also preserved, right next to the first, though in a fire she'd grab the other.

This year we sent him another card. I was clearly not signing with love, but Maisie and Liam--both old enough to sign now--signed their own names with love. And they write so big that there wasn't a lot of room for me, so it didn't look odd, I thought, when I only signed my name. No love. No fondness. No best wishes.

His card arrives today. "Love John." Of course.

All of which I share, dear friends, because can you FRICKING BELIEVE I'm drawing out this little imaginary flirtation of mine at the pace of once a year--sustained only by Christmas card sign-offs?? Once a year. And training Maisie, too. She closed his card today, grinned, and said, "Next year I'm kissing it with lipstick. He'll faint."