Kiddy Contraband

My first-grade son brought me an envelope last night from his backpack.

Me: What's this?
Him: I think it's from the teacher. It was in my locker at the end of the day.

It was a white no. 10 envelope with three stamps in the upper-right corner and my son's name (misspelled W-i-l-y-m) scribbled in blue crayoned letters, graduating in size from left to right.

Me: Really? Since when does Mrs. S use blue crayon and penmanship that indicates either underdeveloped fine-motor skills or something other than coffee in her thermos?
Him: Huh?

There was a blue "?" on the back. Hmmmmmmmm. . .

Inside: a tightly folded piece of stationary. On the front, a picture of a beautiful princess with uber-long hair and hearts for eyes, drawn in blue ink. Now, may I just pause here to say that I DO have to commend this pint-sized seductress for changing writing utensils for a bold look on the envelope, and one of higher precision on the letter itself. A practice I myself use. Oh, she's good.

On the back side, I found this:

"I (very large colored-in heart) you Wilym
I am your itmyyrwr (am guessing 'admirer,' and, again, not bad for a first grader)
I am in your clais room"

After I took a moment to let what I was reading sink in, I found myself saying two things simultaneously.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. . .

and

Who in the hell is this tramp?

Unfortunately for her, it was the latter emotion that prevailed. So tomorrow girls, when I show up with my little Darth Vader at the early-morning classroom lineup, I'll be looking over all of you very carefully. And I'll ferret you out. Because moms know.

Just you try to hide behind this:



Or, God forbid, this:



And just so you know, I'll be the one who looks like this:



Son: Is it from Mrs. S, mommy?
Me: Yes, dear, it is.
Son: What did she say?
Me: That you should live with your mother forever and little girls are not to be trusted.
Son: Oh. Yeah. I already knew that.
Me: Smart boy.