When I kissed John goodnight the other night, he had that look on his face. His eyes get all shifty, her purses his mouth like he's trying not to laugh, and he burrows the back of his head and shoulders into his pillow as if he wants to hide. Then we go through this dialog:
Me: Do you want to talk about something?
Me: Are you sure? You have that look like you've got something on your mind.
John: No no, I'm fine.
Me: If you ever want to talk about something, Dad and I are ready to listen, or you can write us a note if it's too embarrassing.
John: No no! I know. Thank you. It's not about puberty or anything.
Me: OK, I'm not going to sit here and try and pull it out of you. I'm going to go upstairs to bed now.
John: No, no -- you go on upstairs to bed. Good night. I love you.
Me: I love you too. Good night.
And I walk to the bedroom door, and as soon as I get there he says, "Actualleeeeeeee," so I come back and sit on the side of his bed and he pulls the sheets over his head and I hear one muffled word: "Girls."
That's right, friends. Girls.
Or more specifically, a girl. She's on his mind, and he's thinking about writing her a note (and yes, school hasn't started yet). "But I don't think I'll sign it," he said. "Signing it would take away its touch of mystery."