I don’t really like Valentine's Day. All those hearts and
flowers and candy that everybody else gets. Gross. Even when I was married it
wasn’t such a big deal. LtColEx would stop at the grocery store on his way home
from work, grab a card, a dozen reds and a box of Esther Price mixed and his responsibility
to his valentine was bought and done. I usually baked him a cake in a
heart-shaped pan I only used on V Day. I must have thrown it out. I don’t still
have it. Maybe there’s a metaphor in there somewhere about throwing away my
heart …. pan after the divorce. Maybe not.
💓💓💓💓💓
I would be perfectly happy
ignoring February 14 if everybody else would shut the hell up about it
but Coraline doesn’t see it as a romantic holiday. She first became aware of it
when she was about four. When I said I didn’t really celebrate it, she was
heart-broken. “Does that mean you don’t really love me?” she asked with tears in her eyes. Awwww. Shame on me. Now I
make an effort for her. I dug out a card and bought some dark chocolate
Oreos and some mint M&M’s. We’re going to make a trip to our favorite local
chocolatier later in the week, if blizzards don’t keep us home. She drew me a
red circle on her Kindle with her drawing software. I guess it was supposed to
be a heart. It’s the thought that counts. You can't really buy love with cards and gifts, right?
💓💓💓💓💓
She’s at her dad’s for visitation
today. When he picked her up, he gave her a red rose and gave me a white one.
That was sweet and unexpected. I can’t even imagine my dad giving me a red rose
on Valentine’s Day. I’m not sure he even gave my mom a rose, although I was
probably so caught up in my own V Day kid drama, I didn’t notice if he
did or didn’t.
💓💓💓💓💓
I was born on the cusp of the baby
boom and gen X. The first few years I was in school, we decorated our shoe
boxes with bits of lace and red construction paper hearts and hoped somebody
would put a Valentine in it during the class party. Or better yet that it would
be filled with valentines, one from everybody in the class. There was no “bringing
a Valentine for everybody in the class” bullshit. You decorate your shoe box
and you take what you get and if you feel like shit about your measly score, you don’t let
anybody know. And you certainly don't steal a handful from one of the popular kid's boxes when nobody is looking.
Yep, V Day was a popularity contest.
You knew exactly where you stood in the second-grade pecking order as soon as
you opened that dressed-up shoe box and looked inside. I guess it was a good
warm-up for adult romance: a mix of giddy hope, excruciating let-down, and
gratitude for whatever love you found tucked through the slot in your box.
💓💓💓💓💓
The metaphor falls apart in my
later years of elementary school when we were told to bring participation valentines
for everybody. Didn’t matter. Still a popularity contest. In my family we got
to choose one box of little sappy cards each at the store, enough to satisfy
the requirement that everybody got one, including the teacher, who got the
special teacher valentine. Only one problem: all of the valentines in the box
weren’t created equal. Each box had one or two that were bigger than all the
others. And while some said simply “Hoppy Valentine’s Day” with a picture of a
frog, others said “Be mine” or “You’re special” with hearts and a kitten. I
toiled for hours over which card should go to which classmate. Give the big one
to my best friend? Or to the popular girl I wished were my best friend? The
kids who got the most big valentines were obviously the most popular kids. Some kids got to give valentines with a little
red sucker stuck through the card or a tiny box of conversation hearts stuck to
the card. I guess they didn’t have 5 kids in their family.
💓💓💓💓💓
Fifth grade. Sweet grilled
cheesus, does anybody have any good memories of 5th grade? Is 5th
grade simply to prepare us for junior high? I’ve written about 5th
grade a couple of times on this old blog. About being best friends with a popular girl for a year and about two boys fighting to square dance with me. It
was also the year of my first kiss, which had nothing to do with Valentine’s
Day so I’m not going to share that story yet. And it was the year I had my
first crush on a boy in my class.
By the time we were 10 we were
expected to like like a particular boy, so I told the other girls I like liked
Steve A. because we’d been friends since we were about three and had even
walked to kindergarten together every day. He was safe because he was like a
brother. My real crush was on Clint H. though and it was a secret I carried
deep inside along with my absolute belief that Bobby Sherman was my real dad. I
never told a soul, not even my best friend.
I did tell Clint on Valentine’s Day though in the most awkward, painful way possible. Not only did I sort through my little box of cards and choose the one that said “Be mine” to slip into the slot he’d cut in the top of his shoe box, I also sorted out the candies with the three most romantic, loving sayings from a box of conversation hearts and stuck them in the pocket of my coat. When we all put on our coats to go outside for recess, I made an excuse to go back to my desk and waited until all the other kids had left the room. Then I lifted the lid of Clint’s desk just a little and slipped those three hearts into the pencil tray inside his desk. Covert love attack accomplished, I ran outside to play.
I have no idea what I expected
would happen. That he would somehow intuit that he should “be mine”? That Jesus
was watching and would reward me for my loving gesture by making Clint like me
back? Looking back, it was pretty passive-aggressive, but those were the times.
Girls weren’t supposed to make the first move … or the second or third. I grew
up in a time when girls couldn’t even call a boy on the phone, not even when I
was in high school, so my brazen act of slipping those three candies in his
desk would be an unbearable faux pas if I were discovered.
We came back in from recess, took
off our coats and settled in at our desks. I watched as Clint opened his and
discovered the three little candy hearts. He looked around and said, “Where did
these come from?” Everybody craned to look at the hearts in his hand. I looked
too, as if seeing them for the first time, as if he weren’t holding my heart in
his grubby 10-year-old hand. “I bet Reticula put those there,” one of the boys –
I can’t remember which one now – shouted out. “I did not,” I denied. I’m sure
my face was the color of a red construction paper heart. Clint turned and looked at
me, expressionless as a 10-year-old boy, and then turned back to face the front. I don’t even know
if he ate my little candy hearts. I was drowning in shame and embarrassment. I couldn’t even look
at him, probably for the rest of 5th grade.
Two-and-a-half years ago, and decades
after I left 5th grade, my mom was dying and Clint was her lawyer. I
hadn’t seen him since shortly after we graduated. One afternoon as she lay in
her hospice bed, I went uptown to his office to discuss her estate. He’d been
recently diagnosed with a brain tumor, and even though he looked just like an
older version of his 5th-grade self, he seemed so tired and worn
out, like he just wanted to get through the day. My mom died a few days later,
and a year or so after Clint also died, before her estate was even settled.