hot dogs and afternoon delights

We met at lunch. He wasn't supposed to be my dining companion, but I noticed him leaning back on the bench to stare at me. When I'd smile, he'd act nonchalant until, finally, he caved and grinned back. A few moments later, we found ourselves together in a darkened room.

"I don't normally do this kind of thing," I whispered. "It's the middle of the afternoon, and we should be doing other things. With other people. People who love us. It's because I love someone else that I came here in the first place!" As my words trailed off, he nestled his head in my lap and smiled - a lopsided and contented grin just barely discernible in the shadows. The smile was designed to distract me, but I had to confess.

"I don't know when I'll get back here again," I said. "Also, and I hate to admit this, but I don't remember your name."

Accepting my fickle absentmindedness, he responded with a pleasantry offered just a little too loudly. "I like you. You smell good! Like cookies! You smell like cookies! I like you! And I like Optimus Prime, too. He's cool! I have an Optimus Prime action figure. Do you like the Transformers? Do you have any Transformer action figures? I love the Transformers. Have you seen this Transformers shirt I'm wearing? My grandma is coming over tonight and my Mom and Dad are packing their bags and leaving."

And just like that, the noise of the 45 other five and six year olds in the room started to swell and compete with the episode of "Between the Lions" airing on the classroom television, and drug me back to reality. Also, my child, the one I'd come to school to share lunch with, tapped me on the shoulder, flicked his thumb at my young paramour - head still in my lap, still picturing me as a robot in disguise - and said, "Jamie's the one who cut my Superman shirt with his scissors, Mom." Clearly, having smitten my family with school supplies (and my heart with his freckled nose), the brief love Jamie and I shared with each other (and chocolate chip cookies), was doomed to die.

In my defense, I was left vulnerable to Jamie's charms from the moment I arrived at my son's kindergarten class. Excited to have me join him for a delicacy of hot dogs, baked beans and a sherbet cup, I planned to be the ideal lunch date for my son. Pondered the perfect outfit. Spritzed on the perfume, fluffed the hair, and showed up with a huge smile. As soon as I entered his classroom, the whispering started. "You're mom's here. You're mom's here." You're like Gulliver traveling Lilliput when you enter the wondrous realm of a kindergarten classroom. Maybe you're not bound and ventured upon (well, I mean, Jamie stopped short of bindings), but there's lots of little people pointing at the new big person in the room. A lot of pointing.

Lots.

Like, if I weren't comfortable in the person I am now as a full blown grown up, I'd have thought this gang of five and six year olds were ganging up on me, and preparing to go all John Bender smack talk on me. And, OK, maybe that possibility gave me a little gut ache and I wondered how I'd keep my upcoming hot dog down, and the teacher may have had to step in and put the kibosh on the pointing.

Despite the warning, I still watched by back as we walked down the hall to the lunchroom. That march is like the grand entrance of the clowns in the Ringling Brothers Circus. It's virtually impossible, I learned, for kids to not touch, jump, burp and chirp, which, I wonder, where is the turning point when it becomes not as hilarious to do this as an adult? And when might my dear husband hit it?

Once crammed into tables with our tray of food, lunch room aids circled me and patted me on the back, thanking me for coming, like i was in some gourmet restaurant. I talked to the lunch room aids more than my own child, who dug that I was there, but dug it smugly and with zero conversation for me. His silence left me susceptible to the wiley Jamie. I feel our relationship was predestined. Finding out he was a cutter was my "of course" moment. I have a soft spot for the damaged souls, it would seem, even if the extent of the angst was taken out on my kid's Superman shirt.

Forty-five minutes later, my brief dalliance with Jamie was over as the class ventured back to their room for a math lesson. I hope he misses me. I can't help it. I hope he knows I miss him a little bit, too. The bad boys have always done it for me.

If you're out there Jamie, I'm a Megatron girl, and I'm giving you my cookies next time I come for lunch.