Valentine's Schmalentine's

I was in third grade before they made the rule that if you are going to bring Valentines to school, you have to bring them for everyone in your class.

And so, in second grade, I was devastated when my redheaded friend, Gina, had a valentine from Cory Measel and I didn’t. He was the quiet boy in the class, but he liked basketball, and so I had glued a basketball on the corner of my otherwise Lisa Frank covered shoebox as bait.

When my methods had failed me, I was nearly as heart broken as when a boy named Patrick made fun of my crowned cavities in first grade…but not quite.

I had grown up quite a bit by fifth grade when I let my friend, Randy, kiss my cheek for Valentine’s Day. He hadn’t ever kissed anyone but his mom, and he thought that maybe if he kissed my cheek, then we might find out we were meant to be more than friends.

We weren’t, we decided, and ended up jumping on his trampoline for a few hours that afternoon until my mom came to pick me up in our wood-paneled mini van.

I watched out the window as we drove away from his house and he waved real big with a goofy smile on his face. He was so relieved to know we wouldn’t have to mess things up with all that yucky love stuff.

My first real Valentine’s date was when I was 16. My boyfriend was two years younger, so I got to drive to a suburb called Zionsville to pick him up in my 1986, candy apple red, Volvo.

At this stage in my life, I was convinced that everything I wore needed to be a thrift store find. I rarely matched, yet I was always convinced that my ‘unique’ statement was runway worthy.

Somewhere in our family storage shed is a picture my mom took of me before I left the house.  I was wearing a long, red, silkish skirt with polka dots on it, and a cream angora sweater. My hair was in braided pigtail buns, as if I was channeling Princess Leia. The only accessories I wore were my braces.

We went to McDonald’s where he gave me carnations and a Kim Anderson card that he had filled up nearly 2/3 of the way with beautifully written teenage angst.

He was genuine, and I liked that. We broke up three months later because I liked his best friend more.

In college, I was an advocate for Valentine’s Day, but if we’re honest, never quite cute enough to get my own date. So I championed the cause, and became an event planner for the other ‘great personality’ girls that found themselves alone on such a romantic evening.

One year, we all exchanged panties at a coffee bar. Another year, several of us dressed up and went to a nice dinner, the only table of 5 in an otherwise 2-top world.

My senior year of college, I woke up on February 14, to find my room FILLED with red, white, and pink balloons. The girls had blown up balloons, stuffed them in trash bags, and emptied them out in my room while I was sleeping.

It was magical, and no one ever thought to be concerned about the fact that I could sleep through such shenanigans.

For my first adult relationship, I decided to give my heart to a professional wrestler. We had been dating for about 5 months when Valentine’s Day rolled around.

I had made arrangements for a dreamy evening, complete with Christmas lights around the top rope of the wrestling ring, and didn’t hear from my special guy all day long. Finally 6:30 rolled around (we were supposed to meet when I got off work at 5), and he called. Incredibly agitated, I answered the phone.

His dog had died, he explained. Not his dog that I knew, of course, but the one that lived at his grandmother’s house. And he had spent all afternoon burying it in the rain.

I felt horrible. Selfish. Narcissistic.

How could I be upset with such a noble man? Disappointed in him when he was shattered with grief?

I ended up seeing a movie with him late that night, and he fell asleep in the movie theater.

I found out three months later that he was worn out because he had spent the entire day with his other girlfriend, and the dog that lived at his grandmother’s had died…when he was 14.

More lessons.

My mom was a Valentine. Born on February 14, 1960, she would have been 52 this year.

Her friend, Pam, always made her red velvet cake. And Mimi always made her strawberry, heart-shaped cakes. Dad always got her flowers. And anyone else that knew her always gave her Diet Coke. I usually gave her jewelry.

Even though it was her birthday, mom didn’t have grandiose expectations of what every one should do for her. Instead, she always made Valentine’s Day special for everyone else.

When I was laboring over Cory Measel, she was cutting my sandwich into a heart shape and packing a cloth napkin in my lunch box.

When I was dressing for my evening out, she helped me find shoes that wouldn’t ‘overpower the rest of my outfit’, convincing me that the purple platforms just wouldn’t work.

When I was dating a man that people actually called ‘Storm’, she was sending me a huge box filled with candy and cute socks, and a cd of all the love songs she grew up listening to.

She was showing me what it looked like to really love and be loved.

Dad was the same way. I’d always get a hand written note letting me know that I would be his little girl forever. He’d send me money when I was in college or Starbucks gift cards once I developed my bad habit.

Even today, despite the loss and loneliness that he feels in the space of his missing Valentine, he sent me chocolate covered strawberries.

A magical chocolatier in Joplin, MO figured out a way for them to arrive on my doorstep at the perfect temperature even though they travelled all the way to Texas.

No afterthought there…and certainly no dead dog.

*****

We’re in the middle of a complete remodeling endeavor in our home. What started out as replacing the carpet, became three weeks of demolition as we gutted the bathroom, took out a kitchen wall, chiseled out a fireplace, and moved the hot water heater to make way for a pantry.

Needless to say, our lives have been literally uprooted for the last several weeks. Jude and I have spent most of our time at my in-laws, and Caleb has been working diligently on the house. I have gone to help when I can, and he has joined me at his parents’ when he can. Jude spends most of his time looking around trying to figure out which house he woke up in.

It was my year to plan our Valentine’s Day. Because I’m a planner, and because I didn’t know if we would be back in our house or not, I decided to postpone our day o’ love until the 28^th, throwing this Tuesday into the wash as another Valentine’s Day gone bad.

We met for quick lunch today in transit, and when I walked into restaurant, there was a beautiful bouquet of daisies on the table. He also picked up a copy of a book I had read about in the airplane last week. He even wrote in it.

This is not a post to brag on how romantic my ‘hubby’ is or how perfect our lives are.

Instead, it’s a prompt…A prompt to not give up on Valentine’s Day.

When I was putting Jude down for bed tonight, I told him a story about a little boy named Jude who was loved every day of every year. Then I promised him that on this particular day every year I would remind him just how much.

I ran through the gamete of all the people in his life that think he’s pretty spectacular, from his Grammy Tammy up in heaven to both of his Mimi’s to his awestruck Mom and Dad that can’t believe how perfect he is.

Once I laid him down and listened to him sigh as he snuggled his blanket around his head, I realized that’s probably the reason Valentine’s Day is such a huge success.

Everyone wants a day where they’re reminded just how much they’re loved and why.  Sure it’s commercialized and often overrated. And certainly, we should all be doing this every day. But because we don’t, and because sometimes it’s easy to get caught up in the day-to-day minutia, I’m declaring that I’m back on the Valentine’s Day bandwagon.

I think at the very least, love deserves a day.