I Had A Crush On My Son’s Teacher & It Was Better Than Dating
My eyes were two big cartoon love hearts whenever I dropped my son off at school or volunteered in his classroom.
My son’s third grade teacher looked like the main love interest in a Hallmark Christmas romance. I don’t even mean the off-brand Hallmark holiday specials that get shown in the mid-afternoon for moms to watch in the background while they’re doing other things. He was a prime-time-level Hallmark man. He wore thick sweaters in the fall and polo shirts in the spring. He had a regular haircut that he clearly never thought of, it just sprung up out of his scalp naturally attractive and tousled. He was sporty but self-effacing, and never seemed embarrassed if he tripped or missed the ball when playing four square with students during recess. Yes, he played four square with the students during recess. Most of all, he was good and wise and engaging with his students and (I felt) wonderful with my son especially.
My little family also had the whiff of a Hallmark casting call about us. I was a young, newly single mom of tow-headed little boys who had just (or something to get the timing in here)moved back to my childhood small town after leaving my husband. Sure, there were four sons and Hallmark would not have had the budget to cast four children, and yes I was probably too poor to really get fans excited about our storyline, but otherwise we fit the bill. We rented a cute little cottage within walking distance of the school, where the playground was shaded by big oak trees and the students all knew each other since forever.
Of course I was a little bit in love with this teacher, who we will call Sam. I tried not to be horribly obvious about it, but my eyes were two big cartoon love hearts whenever I dropped my son off at school or volunteered in Sam’s classroom. My son asked me one morning, “Why do you keep playing with your hair?” when Sam was talking to me over the fence, his gym class whistle hanging provocatively over his collar, his track pants reminding me of earlier crushes from my own school days. The older brother from The Goonies. Emilio Estevez in The Breakfast Club. That scene from Top Gun where they all play volleyball.
Sam was rather inconveniently married to a fellow teacher who was also rather inconveniently wonderful. In all honesty, this did not matter in the grand scheme of things. A single Sam would have been exactly the opposite of what I wanted or needed. I did not want to marry Sam or even sleep with Sam. I did not want Sam to cheat on his wife or leave his wife or even really come anywhere near me. His wife was only inconvenient insofar as I sometimes felt mildly guilty about the heavily detailed, PG-13 scripted fantasies that kept me such good company on my weekends without my kids.
In those first months after my separation, before I made friends or developed a life of my own, my imaginary love life with Sam got me through every second weekend, when my kids were gone and I needed to fill in those hours alone. I imagined myself with a long thick braid of wavy hair, wearing a chunky Fisherman knit sweater out for a walk with our family’s rescue dog Lily at the local park. In this fantasy, Sam would be at the park too, perhaps throwing a Frisbee for his own complementary canine, and his wife would simply have stopped existing in some banal, gentle way that made our romance plausible enough to root for. He would sidle over to me with his dog and we would get to talking, perhaps go for a crunchy leaf walk together through the forest. I would have a crockpot of homemade soup warming at home. I would invite him over for dinner and he would offer to bring a loaf of crusty bread and a chocolate dessert. Maybe we would hold hands or even kiss. And then we would fade to black.
Every scenario was some different seasonal version of the same thing. Walking mitten-in-mitten through our town’s magical Christmas light display before heading back to my magically tidy home for hot chocolate and a fire roaring in my non-existent fireplace. A touch of my cold cheek, his fingers through my hair. Fade to black. He runs past me on the beach as I sit reading in my tasteful black maillot. I shield my eyes and smile. He sits beside me. We decide to split an order of French fries. Our eyes meet over the ketchup. Fade to black.
Always fade to black.
Sam was the therapy for me in those months. A good man in real life who I could mold like Play-Doh into my own good man to keep my broken heart company. My imagined Sam gave me hope. He helped me figure out what might someday be important to me when I might someday be ready for a real relationship. I wanted gentleness. I wanted ease. I wanted to be able to eat food with someone and wear clothing and just feel okay about myself when I was with him. I wanted to be with someone who knew my sons and loved my sons but I also wanted someone who was just a treat for me.
And then my son graduated from his class and moved on. And I didn’t see so much of Sam (or something)I miss my pretend Sam sometimes. I miss making up all of those almost dates while I walked or shopped or cleaned the bathroom. I miss the possibility of him.
But mostly I’m grateful for the time I spent healing with him. The real Sam doesn’t know it, but he was more than my son’s favorite teacher.
He might have been the best boyfriend I’ve ever had.