Portrait of Valentine's Day

Disclaimer: this post contains graphic content. But, there's no need for gasping, clutching of chests, or any other such shenanigans. It's about Valentine's Day for parents of a three-year-old, for crying out loud.  Nobody is having any kind of sex, whatsoever. I hope that makes you happy.

Meany.

7:00 am: Awaken to a small mouth-breather, standing 3" from your sleeping face, demanding help to go pee (he can do it himself, he just chooses not to first thing in the morning, when it would mean the most to his exhausted parents).

7:03 am: Crawl hopefully into bed and try to go back to sleep.

7:05 am: The kid climbs into your bed, takes over your pillow, and starts an annoying dinosaur growling war in your ear. Daddy gives up and lets him take the iPad, as long as he promises to use it in his room. With the door closed.

8:35 am: Reawaken with a start, guiltily realizing that you've let your child start his day watching almost two hours of unsupervised dinosaur fight scenes on YouTube. Do not get out of bed. The damage is already done, may as well savor the relative peace for a few more minutes.

9:15 am: Daddy gets up and starts coffee. You start the chai latte you've become addicted to since you successfully convinced yourself tea was just as good as coffee to kick start a day. Turns out, it is. Make breakfast.

10:30 - 11:15 am: Field 3 temper tantrums caused by various parental infringements upon the will of a threenager.

11:20 am: Spank and time-out.

11:30 am: Bath.

12:30 pm: Mama takes (an accidental, but much appreciated) nap.

1:30 pm: Daddy puts the kid down for a nap. This one's on purpose.

[1:30 to 4:00]: Blessed peace ensues.

4:30 pm: Family Jenga. The kid wins. He cheats, but tattling is frowned upon in your house, so...

After Jenga but before dinner is a blur, really. Somebody threw several fits over pooping in the potty, resulting in soiled shorts and wiped bottoms. *shrug* Could've been any one of you.

7:00 pm: Mama and Daddy finally sit down to a lovely, home-cooked Valentine's Day meal with the soundtrack to yet another fight scene echoing romantically in the air. The kid touches none of it. He eats cereal. Mama and The Belly got a single, precious sip of Daddy's wine. (Sue me, it was delicious).

7:45 pm: Mama calls a moratorium on tantrums for the day, declaring it (early) bed time. Books, prayers, songs, and kisses see the kid down for the night.

The day ends with Mama and Daddy, huddled together for warmth and strength, watching a movie and feeling the baby kick. Each declares today the best day, ever.

And it was.

F*** Valentine's Day

I used to be a wallflower in the dating department--always on the outside, looking in. A late bloomer, I didn't date much in high school, beyond the requisite school dances and I definitely didn't "go with" anybody, like a lot of my peers did. At least, not on purpose. My accidental 15 seconds of being part of a high school couple is a story for another post. Anyway, back then my experience with love was pretty much limited to yearly unrequited crushes on guys who barely noticed me. College and most of my twenties were exercises in confusion and frustration as I tried on love in its various forms, never finding a perfect fit for myself, and Valentine's Day always made it much, much worse.

From the other side of that plate glass window, it seemed so great. All around me in school were girls who inspired deliveries of carnations and stuffed bears to 5th hour and song dedications on the radio. And later on, my coupled female friends got breakfast in bed, rose-petal strewn walkways, moonlit seranades, expensive candlelit dinners, long-stemmed bouquets and marriage proposals, while I sat on the sidelines, wearing black in solidarity with my uncoupled compatriots for another year, maligning the tyranny of the Hallmark Holiday and hating that fat baby with his bow and arrow, while secretly envying those who had someone to make a fuss over them, no matter how contrived.

My expectations for the day have mellowed with time and experience, but I'll admit, part of me still holds my breath in anticipation and anxiety, even though I haven't had to celebrate one by myself in a long time. I no longer expect to hold hands across a quiet candlelit dinner for two, unless I'm willing to eat after 8, when my son goes down for bed (I'm not) or to pony up for a sitter and an expensive dinner out (um...I'm not). I no longer hope for late nights in fancy clothes, new-release movies or moonlit serenades (it's cold in February. I'm not that mean), but after reviewing my last V-Day, I'm inclined to think I don't have it so bad.

This February 14, instead of breakfast in bed, I woke up (early) to a surly toddler who I got to wrestle into antibacterial ointment and an Elmo bandaid (long story). After that cold shower of an introduction, the day continued on its usual trajectory of crazy--shower, breakfast, fighting said toddler away from the iPad, into clothes and out the door, while rattling off the checklist of items that needed to go with us (laptop, purse, keys, valentines, daycare party treats, PHONE)--then, we were off. And only 15 minutes behind schedule. Blergh...

Instead of sonnets, I got a quirky e-card emailed to me while I was at work that made me laugh and roll my eyes--my favorite from years past is the one where a sheep with my man's voice whispered sweet nothings to me. It was so creepy and it was perfect. I didn't get roses delivered to my office because I prefer lilies and he prefers to choose them and to gift them in person to see my reaction.

Instead of a quiet candlelit dinner, I got a meal at home without flaming fire sticks for my kid to knock over, that I personally didn't have to plan, shop for, or prepare (sweet bliss). The Buddy spent most of his time singing songs and spinning in butt-circles on the floor while we ate. Between circles, he ate a few bites. Those facts, plus the wine (yay!), made all the crazy worth it.

By 8:15, I was cuddled with my love, watching 'Midnight in Paris.' By 8:30, I was asleep. But before I faded off, I remember saying, "Happy Valentine's Day, babe," to which he replied, "F*** Valentine's Day. We get all this love every day."

Not bad at all.

  

What on Earth Was I Thinking??

In a moment of blind sentiment, I decided to take my 1 year old on a date for Valentine's Day.

I planned to do a little window shopping at the mall, eat at the food court and play at kiddie land, all while I smiled benevolently at my busy, beautiful and well-behaved offspring. When it was time to leave, I would quietly give him a five-minute warning, after which he would walk over to me, reach for my hand and we'd go home. There I would help him wash his face, brush his teeth, we'd read a book, cuddle and pray. Then, I would tenderly tuck him into bed for the night.

What happened was quite different. At 5:30, I picked up a surly toddler who'd had a very long day. He was hopped up on sugar from his daycare Valentine's party an hour before. He was also ready to eat dinner and be left alone. Instead, it took us an hour to get to the mall (note: he sucked down 12 oz of milk on the drive), where he protested (loudly) to being confined to a stroller while I looked at earrings. I rushed through a purchase I now regret then moved on to dinner. I eyed our choices at the food court and realized, "yeah, he's not gonna eat any of this crap." Instead, I spent $10 of a hard-earned gift card for a turkey and swiss sandwich and more milk.

I rode the elevator up to the food court to eat (did I mention he's terrified of elevators?), where he objected (loudly) to being confined to a stroller while we ate. Seeing a pattern, here? I scarfed down my food. He scarfed down his. Then he loudly protested that there was no more milk. I wasn't spending $2 on another carton--he'd already had sixteen ounces in two hours. I told him he wasn't getting any more damned milk (no swearing; but I felt like it). He knocked over his stroller in impotent rage. I dragged him, kicking and screaming, back to the elevator, decided it wasn't worth it, and did what I swore I'd never do. I hauled my screaming toddler, an overstuffed diaper bag and an umbrella stroller down the escalator. He wasn't in the stroller, but still...I work for an escalator manufacturer where I get almost daily reports of escalator injuries due to stupid choices that passengers make. Even before I worked here, I judged parents harshly for doing what I was doing. I learned a valuable lesson in humility last night.

During that ride, I discovered his diaper was soaked (Remember sixteen ounces?) and toted him to the family changing room. Thus ensued a 5-minute death-match over changing that diaper. I won, but not without collateral damage and a great deal of sweat. Thank God there were no mandated reporters in there.

Then I thought, "let's end this trip on a high note and go to the play place, instead of going straight home!" Dumb idea. Apparently, Valentine's evening is when fathers take their smart phones and their children to the play place at the mall, so they can ignore them in an enclosed space. These kids, like mine, are also wound up from earlier candy binges. I chased my ecstatic and blissfully unaware boy around a 20-foot enclosure for 25 minutes, begging much bigger children not to step on, roll over, push or otherwise maim him in their sugar-induced euphorias. After his last narrow escape from death, I decided to call it quits, which is when the top of his head exploded.

Okay, it didn't, but it surely seemed like it. I dragged him--arching, screeching, and hitting--out of the mall and into the car. He babbled angrily at me all the way home, where I stripped him, shoved him into jammies and tossed him in bed--no book, no cuddle, no prayer.

Yep. Mother of the year, right here.