Mama doesn't like Valentine's Day. Like many of the older, long-married people quoted in a recent NYTimes article about gift giving, Mama resents being told when to show her love, preferring to spread gifts around throughout the year. Additionally, many of her gifts aren't physical objects, but gifts of time, generosity, thoughtfulness--letting me sleep in, unloading the dishwasher before I get to it, bringing my shoes inside before I go out in the cold, finding just the right show ("Downton Abbey"!!!!) to watch on Netflix.
Except this year.
Because Friday night, she nonchalantly said to me, as we were preparing tea and scones for our "Downton Abbey" marathon, "I did get you something for Valentine's Day. Do you want it now or later?"
Surprised, and never one to delay gratification, I laughed and said, "What, chocolate? A little blue box?"
And it was!
There was a little robin's egg blue box from Tiffany's, with a pair of dangly, rose quartz earrings. Beautiful. Unexpected. Special. Surprising. Typical of her. Especially because we'd agreed, as usual, not to bother, and so I hadn't, beyond a homemade card. It reminds me of my mom's story about one of my dad's most romantic gestures: as they were heading out to dinner around Valentine's Day years ago, he reached under the car seat and handed her a much-desired Swatch watch.
I guess you do look for someone like your dad. Even if he's a she!
Otherwise, we had a relatively low-key Valentine's Day. The kids barely finished making their 20 cards for class--Sis made foamy-sticker covered cards, with pencils attached when she learned that other kids would be giving treats, while Bud signed his name to paper-airplane valentines from the store, since I remembered how hard it was to get him to make cards last year.
At church, the kids had made several cards for the congregation, which they helped distribute Sunday morning before their own party. One of the little wooden baskets my kids had decorated with their names on it went to another young mom in the congregation, I noticed. I had (more than) half-hoped she'd offer it to me, since her child had made one for her specifically as well (which I actually made sure she got after service, it having been left on the table), but she didn't. I'm trying not to care.
In perhaps true twin fashion, the most important valentines for the kids came from each other, cards they'd both worked on at school and were eager to exchange. Bud also made a giant paper heart with other hearts for Mama and I, which he'd kept under his pillow all week as a secret. We had cards for them, plus fleece scarves in pink and blue. Sis wondered where the chocolate was!
They got enough of that at school. Even though Bud was borderline sick, with runny nose and a sleepless night, he didn't have a fever and so I wanted him to be able to participate in that important school rite: the valentine exchange. She'd decorated a shoebox, he a bag, and they passed out their cards (a fair-to-everyone unlabeled batch of 20 to prevent them from favoring one child, ignoring another) in an impressive ritual. But they couldn't sort the loot until they got home, dumping it out on the table and exclaiming over all the pencils and candy hearts and chocolate kisses and lollipops and fruit-by-the-yard and tattoos and gift baggies and stickers and . . . and . . . and . . . figuring out what was from whom, who liked Princesses and who chose Spiderman. The collection was much more impressive than I used to get. And clearly just as awe-inspiring and impressive.
Eating the treats off and on throughout the day, the rest of our Monday was pretty routine until they hit exhausted meltdown midday. So we didn't call anyone, didn't finish the cards we were behind on for the whole family, didn't refrain from greedy-grabbing and throwing and crying, except long enough to rest while watching Ratatouille.
With bedtime at 6:30 because of all the tears, Mama and I had plenty of time to continue our "Downton Abbey" marathon, this time with orange-chocolate truffle cake. All in all, a pretty good Valentine's Day.
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