Crush

photo-1024x764Evidently, he’s older.  Pre-K. And an animal on the playground. Usually, an elephant. My daughter, she’s smitten.

Lucille has a crush.

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“Mama, Maya said she’s thinking about kissing her boyfriend,” she said the other day.

“Really?”

“Who’s her boyfriend?”

“Cole,” she said.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked totally taken aback by this conversation I was having with my four-year-old but trying not to let it show.

“Yeah,” she said looking down, blushing. “Jackson.” She drug out his name a little and smiled.

“Are you thinking about kissing him?” I said.

“Yeah,” she said cheeks full of fire. “But it’s not okay to kiss at school.”

Then, without missing a beat.

“What’s a boyfriend? A boy who’s a friend?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “A boy who’s a friend.” This sounded plausible, something she might hold onto for a couple of (ten maybe?) years.

“Well why does the girl in Call me Maybe give the boy her number? Does she want him to be her boyfriend? Then what’s a boyfriend?” she asked. Clearly she understood on some primal level that a boyfriend is more than just a boy who’s a friend. A boyfriend is something special, something exotic. And she apparently has one.

This is a new phenomenon in the Savage Quackenbush household. We’ve never had a crush. We’ve never seen blush rise into the cheeks of either of our daughters at the mention of anyone’s name. Jack – son. Just say it and she runs away smiling. She talks about the games they play on the playground.  She talks about how he’s the elephant, she’s the kitty cat (not kidding!) and I am nearly as dumbfounded about how to respond as she is about what the real definition of boyfriend is.