On Measuring Valentine's Day

I wonder how to measure a complete and successful Valentine's Day. How do you measure if it was good enough?

Before the babies came, Valentine's Day was measured at work. Who had the long stem roses delivered? Who had the fanciest dinner reservations? Who had the most booty and swag, and the largest and most balloons? That was how love was measured.

Now I have three boys and I am home on Valentine's Day. For the last three years we celebrated around a meal with an arsenal of boy-rated fancies, and boy-themed cards, and boy-inclined shiny-s and large over done red plunder. It was a sight to see. But not this year. Dr. Romance had a night class that canceled a fancy family dinner. Instead, we settled for a quick breakfast meal. Mornings already are rushed with Dr. Romance heading to Harvard, and the two older boys heading to two different schools. So that old Valentine's measuring stick came out. I wondered if this mama's Valentine's Day was good enough.

I wondered as I packed heart shaped lunch sandwiches. I wondered as I set out paper packaged dinosaur heart plates for breakfast. I wondered as I cut hearts from frozen waffles. A guilt wave surged over such a hasty breakfast. Frozen waffles seemed so common.

I stopped wondering when I pulled out the whipped cream, because whipped cream makes you forget all kinds of stuff. And my love, Dr. Romance, presented me secret sophisticated strawberry sauce he bought in California for such a time as this. We drew initials on the waffles, because every superhero loves his initial monogrammed on everything, like the big S for Superman. And the two of us working together, assembling three boys' waffle plates, could not be measured.

I giggled when Dr. Romance handed me my breakfast plate. He was cooking behind me. I don't know how to measure a man that presses Wilton cutters over my cheesy eggs.

We gathered the baby's plate. He did not measure himself as leftovers.

I don't know why I worry. Those boys measured breakfast as special. They measured with laughter. To them, I was good enough. I gathered the plates, and the eldest wandered into the kitchen. "Close your eyes, Mommy. We have a surprise for youuuuuuuu!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I closed my eyes, fully expecting a Valentine's card, stuffed with a gift card. I opened my eyes, and was a bit confused by the red velvety tower until I saw the logo on the card.

I first saw Sugardaddy's on Throwdown. Seventeen months ago I held my newborn in my arms and drooled over their Tahitian Blondies. I settled the baby, and then fell asleep on the couch before the show ended. Dr. Romance surprised me a day later with them on my doorstep. They are not for the every day. Frozen Valentine's waffles cannot even touch this stuff.

But even greater joy came from his words in my card. They measured me.

 

And that little card, with those little words, were enough. If those lightly scrawled words were enough, how could my frozen waffles not be enough?

Because there is more. With wisdom and genius, the evening class was canceled at the last minute. I almost cringed when Dr. Romance, in all of his elation, proposed we order Thai food for dinner. This was definitely not my idea of a Valentine's dinner. I don't crave Thai food. But Dr. Romance does, and so do my kids. So I silenced those inner thoughts and picked up dinner with my eldest. As he nearly skipped down the sidewalk with joy to the Thai restaurant, I took a breath, and smiled. I looped my arm through his. "C'mon, you're my date," I said. Once home, we unpacked dinner, pulled out the Valentine's Day cards that arrived from afar, and read the many ways we are loved.

No fanfare. No gift bags of swag. No red explosions filling our dining room.

But this Farmer Valentine's Day? It was more than enough.