Valentine’s Day

I started out my Valentine’s Day the way I believe everyone ought to start out their Valentine’s Day.

That is to say: I started out Valentine’s Day with my mother’s pancakes, dyed a lovely shade of pink -per tradition.

After mom graciously fed us all and handed out Valentine gifts to the grandkiddies, I snatched up my nieces and brought them home with me.  Their mom went in for an ultrasound (it’s a BOY!).  Instead of having preschool class, we had a preschool party.  My one-year old niece is so dang cute that I can’t get enough of her.  Three years ago when Lacy was one and she was dumping everything out of anything, it really chapped my cheeks.  But watching my niece do it was downright adorable.  What changed?  I dunno.  My attitude.  The fact that I had another kid.  The fact that this kid is irresistable and I enjoy watching her dump things.
I wish I had more for her to dump. And really -doesn’t that picture just make you smile? Laugh? Grin? Anything? I love it.
If that didn’t get you grinning, this Valentine, made by my four year old cousin will:
He later added three sequins under it -a nice touch, if you ask me. Come to find out, he was trying to write “L-I-E” which is the last three letters of his sister’s name. He just got a little mixed up. I’m so glad. I’ve pulled that picture about eleven million times today, just to laugh at it.
Just as the party was ending and parents were picking children up, a white truck pulled into my driveway. The fire chief got out of it. I knew he was coming -he was dropping off some paperwork for my husband.
That’s what fire chiefs specialize in -paperwork. Not that I would know, but it seemed reasonable. I bought it. I BOUGHT it.
Of course I bought it.
Because my husband bought me the purple flowers days before and THEY were my Valentine’s flowers, per tradition! I always got Valentine’s flowers the week before Valentine’s Day because we’ve always been too poor to afford something as dazzling as delivery. I don’t mean to say that we’re rich. We’re not. We are not. Financially, we are not. That’s why I got the purple flowers. That’s why my jaw hit the floor when the fire chief handed me a dozen red roses with a card attached from my husband.  The thing is: the fire chief’s wife works at Pat’s.  

These mean a great deal to me, and if you’re going to guffaw over flowers and chocolates and The Hoax That Is Valentine’s Day, please don’t stop reading. What I’m about to write really doesn’t concern all that directly. It mostly concerns my parents.
Every year on Valentine’s Day, my mother would get a bouquet DELIVERED to her. It was always beautiful. BEAUTIFUL. As a little girl, I used to watch the excitement on my mother’s face. The flowers always made her glow, and I loved knowing that something my dad gave to my mom made her feel that way. He always ordered the arrangements from the same place. Pat’s. I frequented Pat’s in high school, picking up my brother’s corsage orders and my orders for those, you know… flowers you pin on the boy that are called by a name I can’t spell… boutennieres. Buttonierres. Boo-tun-ears.
Anyway, the place smells fabulous.

I never, ever told my husband about my mother’s Valentine delivery flowers. All I ever DID tell him was that I appreciated what he got. I also must mention that I’m a fan of brightly-colored grocery store bouquets. I am not a fan of grocery store roses. Am I a snob?
Well, yeah. I see that now. It isn’t entirely my fault. It’s my Dad’s, really! And this isn’t the first time he’s done this to me. My first year away from home, it took me nearly 10 minutes to buy a bell pepper. One. Bell Pepper. I picked one after another up and scoffed. Nothing was good enough! I had no idea people LIVED like that, scraping by on scrawny wilted peppers.  They looked nothing like the beauties my dad could turn out.  I won’t even get into the time I paid $4 for one watery tomato.
And steaks. My Dad makes the best steaks I’ve ever had. I didn’t know they were the best at first. I just thought they were steaks. Steaks were steaks and steaks were great. And then one day, one fateful day, I ordered a steak… at a restaurant.
It was disgusting.
I couldn’t eat it! I could not eat it! I’ve never been a picky eater, and I considered sending it back to the cook with a post-it note: This isn’t steak. I don’t know what it is, but I know what it isn’t… steak.
I didn’t do that. I was a junior high kid on a field trip, so I didn’t do that. But I went home and hugged a package of my Dad’s fresh steak. Okay I didn’t do that either. At least, not until I was in college and home for a visit.

My husband has told me time and again how much he loves that he married a girl who isn’t high maintenance. Granted, I do insist on growing a garden, but that saves money! I do insist on buying and butchering a cow so we’ll have fresh beef, but in the long run that ALSO saves money (steak at roughly $1 a pound? Yes, please!) but now there’s this whole FLOWER mess that has me rethinking my very character!
I thought I was down to earth.
I thought I was reasonable.
I thought I didn’t need flowers.
Truths:
I’ve been spoiled.
I do need flowers, but only a certain type that make me feel exactly like my one year old cousin when she’s dumping stickers on the table… confident, a little reckless, and a lotta happy.
Happy Valentine’s Day to you.

PS: who wants to break the news to my husband that I’m expensive? I don’t.  Oh, who am I kidding?  He’s figured it out by now.