Monthly Musings, May 2014

I have so many random neuron firings in a month's time, I started writing them down to chuckle over in my down time. Sharing them with you is a great way to log a blog post and not really have to do any work. Welcome to my crazy, folks.

 

Mother's Day is not relaxing or fun unless your children are grown and out of the house. Or at least able to wipe their own butts.

I'm 38 years old. I survived junior high school, puberty, and a dateless senior prom. Shouldn't I get to be done with acne and combination skin, now?

 

Why, after a nap, does my face look like it was dipped in acid while I slept, but W and The Bud always wake up looking great? #unfair #genderbias

 

How do you explain peeing in the toilet to a person who has successfully mastered (and prefers) the "pay while you play" method of excretion?

 

I don't know where I'd be without the women in my life.

 

Do guys really think no one can see them pick their noses when they're in their cars? #commuterquestions

 

I don't think I've ever been this tired. EVER. #workingmamaproblems

 

I think morning breath is a tongue's cry for help. #whatdiedinthere?

 

A friend said she needed a wife to help her with all the things. #genius #iwantonetoo

 

I'm driving W's SUV right now. It's high off the ground. I am not. I am, however, always in a hurry. A vehicle I have to polevault into, a hurry, and a pencil skirt do not mix. #dollarstoresewingkitssuck #okmysewingsucks

 

The gas for said SUV is expensive but the 6-cd changer and subwoofers are badass. #tradeoff #formoverfunction

 

Can a court jester and a goddess inhabit the same form? Obviously!

 

 

 

 

 

You Did It! You're Three!

Dear Miles,

I can't believe how much you've changed and grown this year! I hope you know what a pleasure it is for Daddy and me to watch you discover and master your world. You attack life with such joy and curiosity that it keeps us joyful and curious. There's so much I want to remember (and to remind you of) from this last year. I'm sure there are things I'll leave out because you're moving so fast, it's taking all my effort just to keep up with you let alone take notes, but I've got the rest of my life to watch you and to remember, so be prepared to go nuts from all the stories I'll tell your dates some day. What can I say? I'm your mom: it's what I do.

For one thing, you've grown. You're much taller now, because you finally got your legs. I'm not saying you were born without legs--you had 'em; believe me, I checked--they were just really stumpy there for a while. You had all this head and torso with these sawed off, little legs. We weren't sure how you kept your balance. Now, they're deliciously proportional to the rest of you. I'm never more conscious of how big you are than when you crawl into my lap for a cuddle. You used to fit neatly into the space between my chin and waist. Now, you overflowing my lap with skinny arms, legs, elbows and knees. Such a big kid...

You're so affectionate. I'll look up from a task sometimes to find you standing there quietly, waiting with your arms thrown wide. When we make eye contact you say, "hug, Mommy," then run into my arms when I reach for you (I always do and I always will). Then we both sigh with happiness. You like to repeat that 5 or 6 times before moving on to something else. I call it a hug attack. You're indescriminate with your kisses. Doesn't matter what time of day, what we're in the middle of, whether I'm awake for it or what foreign substance you may have on your face, you're always ready with a kiss.  For me, anyway, not so much for Daddy. I think his beard might be too scratchy for you. Either that, or you already think you're too manly to kiss him. I've mentioned before that he's got some feelings about that, too, but as for me? I love it. Makes me feel special. :) Regardless of the stubble problem, in the circle of Daddy's arms is one of you're favorite places to be. And believe me, he's oh, so happy to have you there.

You're very kind and care about other people. You've always been sensitive to others' feelings, and now you're learning the words to describe them.  It's not unusual to find you hovering near a crying baby, offering a toy to calm them or to feel your small arms wrapped around my legs if I raise my voice in a way that makes you concerned, or patting my back if you think I'm sad. You've learned to say I'm sorry if you make a mess, if you hit someone by accident (we're working on saying sorry when you hit on purpose), or if you knock something over. Please and thank you are coming along nicely, too.

You're strong and stubborn. Your name means gentle warrior and it fits you to a T. People think you're passive because mostly you're content to go with the flow and don't make a lot of waves or noise but Daddy and I know different. You're the scrappiest person we know and you always have been. You quietly manipulate and maneuver your environment to suit your purpose. It's a skill you honed early. A diplomat or a third world dictator could learn a lot from you. We were just reminiscing recently about the day you were born. There were so many reasons to worry that you might not thrive: you were 7 weeks early, you weren't growing well inside me because I was so sick, boys develop a bit more slowly than girls do in their mama's tummies...the list was long, and a bit scary. But we shouldn't have worried. You came into the world, against all odds, a 3-lb tornado, screaming and peeing for all you were worth, and put all our fears to rest. We knew then that you were a fighter and that nothing was going to hold you back. So far, nothing has. Anybody who has come against the business end of your will knows exactly what I'm talking about.

You are eager to learn and take in new information like a sponge. I can't believe what you know already. You know lots of animals by sight and sound, shapes, the colors, all the numbers, the alphabet and can recognize all of the letters in words that you see. You have an incredible memory, especially for where we put the cookies, the iPad or anything else we don't want you to have. You know tons of words. I kept a list for a while, then stopped when I realized you weren't going to stop learning them. You can count to 20 by yourself and loved it when I showed you how counting to 100 was really just counting to 10, over and over again. You have all of your books memorized and love to "read along" when we have reading time. Your current favorites are, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Thomas' Busy Day (or any other Thomas and Friends book), and The Giving Tree.

You love nature. When we're outside, you stop to smell every flower, hug every tree, swing every stick, throw every rock and step in every puddle. Walks are long, drawn out affairs with you. You point out the moon during the day, clouds in the sky, the sun and flowers wherever they may be. There's a huge rock in a yard on our walk route that you stop to hug and kiss every time we pass it. I have no idea why, but I love this quirk of yours.

You're a man's man and a lady's man. Daddy is your best friend and you love to be wherever he is. You love to wrestle, to run and jump, to be thrown high in the air, to destroy things and to jump on my furniture. I don't love that so much. If there are big kids around, you love to chase them and to do what they're doing. If there is a room full of girls and the only boy is a baby, you gravitate toward the baby. In fact, your favorite playmates at daycare are two boys, both younger than you, because they're the only other males present. That will change one day, my son. I know this because you're also the most incorrigible charmer (other than your father) that I know. Grandma W calls you a lady killer and she's so right. You've got an eye for a pretty lady and make sure to show your appreciation in the form of smiles, "jokes," dancing, showing off and the offering of toys. And these chicks fall for it, every time! Lord, help us all.

You love robots, books, sidewalk chalk, parks, percussion instruments of all kinds,  animals, chocolate, bugs, spaghetti, cartoons with lots of music in them (The Little Engine That Could, Transformers Rescue Bots, Charlotte's Web), trains, trains and TRAINS. You're talking up a storm, from the time you wake up til you close your eyes for sleep. I think we're only getting about a third of what you mean right now, but when your words get clearer, look out! Daddy says you get that from me. I have no idea what he's talking about. ;)

You take joy in the the mundane. "Yay, you did it!" comes out of your mouth multiple times a day. Regardless of how small the accomplishment (eating an unfamiliar food, climbing a slide by yourself, helping with clean up, surviving a bath with suds) we know it's our cue to commence with the celebrating. Because of you, we no longer take a single success for granted. You've taught us to clap, to cheer, to jump and to dance as if no one has ever lived this day better than we have.

And frankly, no one has.

So in honor of your special day, we raise our chocolate milk cups and dance our happy dances to you, Buddy, because you did it!   You turned 3! Here's to many, many, MANY more such celebrations. We love you!

Parents Without Partners

I've been parenting alone for 93 hrs and 47 minutes. Not that I'm counting or anything.

 

My partner in parenting crimes and in this crazy, mixed-up life, the dazzling Mr W, is spending the bulk of next three months in the southland, doing an internship at a reputable studio in Music City. He's living out of duffle bags, pushing buttons, faders and stuff on sound boards, talking about music with strangers, living off bologna sandwiches (as if he would) and beer (he'd try)...living his dream, basically. On weekdays, back here in the 'Lou, the Buddy and I hold it down, and while I feel I'm up for the challenge, it must be said:

 

The short guy is not pulling his weight, no matter how many cookies he's willing to pull out of the pantry all by himself.

 

Sure, I've been alone with this kid before, many times. You don't co-parent with a career musician without doing a lot of parental heavy lifting on nights and weekends. That said, you never truly know how many holes someone fills in your daily life until they aren't there. That man fills a whole lotta holes. I'm sure every parent in the world out there can identify with me on this, in some way. Your partners travel a lot, have jobs that require a lot of their attention during the kids' awake time, they're shift workers, you're the nine-to-fiver and your partner works nights/weekends so a lot of the kid shuffling falls to you, or you're a single parent. Or maybe your significant other managed to score a guys'/girls' weekend in the Tetons before you had a chance to get your schedule conflict on the calendar first. Whatever the reason you're alone with these little people, if you're like me, you could use a survival tip here and there.

 

There are a few things I've already learned that might help me make it through this with my sanity intact, and since there's a snowball's chance in hell I'll remember them if I don't write them down, I submit to you, dear readers, the following list. If any of it manages to help you, too, I will be shocked. I'll also be happy for you, so don't be shy. Feel free to tell me about it in the comments section so we can both be encouraged. I'd also love to hear what other parents in the trenches are doing that works, so leave those comments as well.

 

In this list, I will be talking about my kid, The Buddy, but feel free to insert your own ankle-biter's nome de plume in its place. You're probably confused enough as it is.

 

1) When the alarm goes off at 5:30 am, get up. Do not believe yourself when yourself says you'll get up in 5 min. You won't. You'll end up sleeping 'til 6:15 when The Buddy wakes up, and we all know that's when the Toddler Time Suck kicks in. Everything slows down to half speed and no transition is made without a tantrum to round it out. You need to be showered, dressed and pouring the cereal by the time he wakes up, otherwise your morning is toast.

 

2) Wear the first outfit you put on. You've worn it many times before and yes, it still looks fine. You don't have time to "feel fat in this."

 

3) Always pack up what you will need for the next day before you sit down after putting The Buddy to bed. Put whatever will be safe and will not go bad in the car at night. If you don't, you will fall asleep where you sit and stumble to bed at 3 am, having accomplished nothing. It'll take that much longer to get out of the house in the morning because all your stuff is still scattered where you dropped it, between the front door and the bathroom, which was your first stop when you got home last night. I know...all you really want to do is sit down with a [insert drink] to watch/read [insert show/book], but the pain of working 10 more minutes now is much less than cramming in 10 more minutes of painful prep in the morning. Trust me.

 

4) When in doubt, phone it in. Feeding him fish sticks, frozen pizza, peanut butter waffles or chicken nuggets is not child abuse. Child abuse is shoving the kid in a drawer so you can't hear him whine and beg for food while you spend an hour making a macrobiotic meal from free range ingredients after a long day. So is sitting him on the curb with a sign that says, 'Free to a Good Home,' after he doesn't eat said meal.

 

5) As long as he's still getting his butt wiped at diaper changes, you wash his hands after play and before meals, and he didn't dive bomb any mud puddles or dog poo piles, 2 baths a week is plenty. Any more than that and you're adding unnecessary stress to your life and there's nothing I can do to help you.

 

6) Take out the trash/empty the dishwasher only when required by necessity and/or public code.

 

7) In spite of how you feel, singing the Transformers: Rescue Bots theme song or 5 Little Ducks six thousand times between daycare and home each night will not make you go insane. The Rescue Bots song is actually quite catchy and the way he sings along, dancing and making hand gestures will make you long for him to stay a joyful, little boy forever.

 

8) Exercise. Even if it's just a walk to the corner and back, get outside where the walls can't close in on you both. It's good for you. Go for a run twice a week. He hates the jogger, but you really need this, so push past his tantrum, shove him in that stroller and get out there! And stop forgetting the stroller on the front porch at night. It's a safe neighborhood, but if it's stolen, you were asking for it.

 

9) Please make sure to plug in the damned iPad and Kindle at night. He doesn't care that the battery is dead and he will not stop whining "it's not working!" until you bring either/both of them back to life. What's in it for you? Those two tablets are your ticket to 5 minutes alone in the bathroom.

 

10) Yesterday, you locked your keys in your car, distracted by a battle of wills with The Buddy when you were dropping him off at daycare. It was the straw that broke the camel's back on an already trying morning. You were an hour and a half late for work. You ate takeout for both breakfast and lunch. You were mean in your head to the locksmith guy because he talked your ear off when all you wanted him to do was open the car DOOR already, so you could leave! Thinking back, it sounded like he'd had a rough morning, too. Shake it off. Next time something like this happens (it will), keep this in mind: you have insurance. Roadside assistance took care of it in 20 seconds (plus an hour wait) and you weren't charged anything. Your daycare provider is a jewel. She and her husband were easy to hang out with and nice to you. You got a hug from The Buddy every 5 minutes because having you at daycare was a treat for him. He gave you a big kiss when you left--he must've forgiven you for not letting him take the iPad with him. Also while you waited, a little girl sang The Beatles' "Here Comes the Sun," to you. Your boss and coworkers are awesome. Everybody understands that life happens sometimes and nobody made you feel bad about it happening to you.

11) You can do this. You will not die. Alright, bring 'em in. 1, 2, 3...GO TEAM! 

20 Questions

I found this little list on a blog I follow and liked it, so I thought I'd give it a go. Now you'll know way more about me than you did, and probably more than you wanted to. Enjoy!
 

1) What is the last thing you watched on TV? I don't watch anything on TV when it's actually on, but I have Hulu Plus, so you got me with Parenthood.
 

2) When did you last step outside? What were you doing? This afternoon, we were coming home from a play date with friends.
 

3) What is on the walls of the room you are in? A clock, a mirror and a family photo.  I'm in the living room.
 

4) If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy? An IRA, a house and a crossover SUV. Oh, and a Keurig machine. I am a lame.
 

5) Tell me something about you that most people don’t know. I have an extra molar that I've never seen the need to have removed.
 

6) Who made the last incoming call on your phone? Pete.
 

7) What was the last book you read? The last book I finished was The Lovely Bones. I'm currently reading Jesus Feminist.
 

8) If you could change something about your home, without worry about expense or mess, what would you do? I'd make it a house. Apartment living is getting old.
 

9) What was the last thing you bought? Tampons, body butter, conditioner.
 

10) If you could eat lunch with one famous person, who would it be? Living: Sandra Bullock. Dead: Beverly Cleary. If she's not actually dead yet, I am so sorry.
 

11) Which store would you choose to max out your credit card? Urban Outfitters.
 

12) Is the glass half empty or half full? Depends on the day.
 

13) Name something that took you by surprise. Easy, my son.
 

14) Name one TV show you will watch every time it's on. See #1.
 

15) Name a movie you will watch no matter how many times you've seen it. Steel Magnolias.
 

16) What's your favorite musical? A Chorus Line.
 

17) What’s the farthest-away place you’ve been? South Africa.
 

18) What’s under your bed? A storage bin for my sheets and a shoe bag is what I put under there. My son has likely put assorted Thomas and Friends trains under there that I haven't found, yet.
 

19) What is your favorite time of the day? Nap time.
 

20) What Inspires You? People who overcome incredible odds with joy and hope intact.
 

This was fun! You should do it, too. If you do, leave me a link to your blog in the comments section and I'll come to visit you, back. :)

Parenthood: Making Humans Out of Robots Since The Beginning of Time

 

The other day (could've been yesterday or two weeks ago, I don't even care), I showed up to daycare to get my son, with no carseat. We own two, but I had neither of them. Don't worry, he's home now. I eventually got us both there (the same day, I think) with a loaner carseat from a dear friend who lived close by, and only inconvenienced 4 people in the process. Nice, low number...less than 5, so I can round down. See how I know math?

 

I used to be on top of things, I swear.

 

I was the one to count on in a crisis and to call on in a pinch. I started packing a week before a trip. I kept a daily to-do list, and actually marked all the stuff off each day. And if I was able to fit in tasks that weren't on the list? I put them on there, just so I could mark them off. I considered 5 minutes early to be on time and always planned for contingencies. Yeah, that girl: Little Miss Capable.

 

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

 

I've mentioned before that I suspect parenting teaches us way more about ourselves than about the kid(s) we're raising and I'm seeing that more and more in my own life, the further into the parenting game I get. Becoming a mom punched a big, ol' hole in my Capable persona and as much as I miss being on time places, the changes haven't been all bad.

 

I wince to admit that being so together all the time pretty much made me a smug jerk. I used to count approving glances at my Little Miss Capable antics like notches on a bedpost, secretly judging others who didn't have it quite as together as I did. I was impatient with mistakes, with missed deadlines, messes, helplessness, neediness and apologies. I swooped in to fill holes where I found them, deflecting grateful thanks with a smile and "I'm just glad I could help." Mary Poppins on an ego trip. Then, I gave birth to a squalling, 3 lb inconvenience (a story for a different day), and became the writhing mess of vulnerability I'd secretly scoffed at.

 

These days, I consider it a win if I only have to go back in the house twice to get something I forgot, if I'm late anywhere 15 minutes or less and if, when I leave the house, I remember to take the kid with me on the first try. I'm perpetually sleep deprived and everything is a mess. I have ground up Goldfish Crackers in every upholstered surface I own and dried chili on the floorboard of the backseat of my car from a spill that happened last October. My rationale for not cleaning it up when it happened? It was cold enough outside not to spoil and smell bad. Lucky for me and my future passengers, that calculated risk paid off. I've stopped apologizing for forgetting things or making mistakes. Well...that's not exactly true. I say sorry because it's rude not to, but I no longer feel bad, inside. Call me a sociopath, but I don't have enough hours in a day to beat myself up over something that happens so regularly. I've found that a blank look and a shrug covers a multitude of sins, or at least makes the other person so disgusted with me that they go away without a fight. Silence...score. Some days I'm just glad I remembered to brush my teeth and to put on underwear. Too far? After what I just admitted about saying sorry, would it mean anything to you if I apologize? M'kay. Moving on.

 

My son has turned my life upside down with his needs, his timeline, his bowel movements and his developing will. He always gets sick on weekdays. He's never in a hurry--he wants to take life in slowly, and if I don't let him, there will be blood. Probably mine. He doesn’t care that it looks bad for Mama to go to work with a peanut butter paw print on her butt--he's going in for that last hug anyway. And the pooping? I can't talk about it. 

 

He's the most adorable wrench in the works that I could've ever imagined, which helps make the bitter pill of walking around like a mental patient in mismatched shoes, much easier to swallow. It's taking being a mom to humble me enough to make me human. I'm chock-full of vulnerability and I'm getting more okay with it by the day. And the most amazing thing? People are so nice to me, including all the ones who I was a secret jerk to AND the ones I regularly inconvenience; they cut me slack for peccadilloes large and small, and they do it because they get it. They were probably human well before I joined the team, so they already know that it isn't okay to let your strength in one area leave you without grace for others who show weakness in that same area. They know that the only acceptable responses to another's vulnerability are 1) grace, 2) a hug, and 3) indiscriminate bottles of wine, as needed.

 

I'm humbled daily by all the humans who look past my shortcomings and simply lend me a hand when they can, a hug when I need it and a chance to laugh at myself and not take it all so seriously. What gifts. I'm so glad I don't have to know how to live without them. So, if you're a human, too--in training or already broken in doesn't matter--and need someplace to shake off the mistakes you make all the time(s), stop on by. I'm home, unless I forgot an ingredient I needed for tonight's dinner again, in which case I'll be back in 10 minutes. (No, I'm not sorry). Get excited; there will be wine. 

To All the Lost Girls

I've been avoiding this post for a while, but it keeps welling up inside me, so I finally had to do something about it. It's a story of hope, but in order to get to it, I have to tell some of my personal ick, and while I may only have five readers, that's five more people than had heard this story as of yesterday, which makes me a bit itchy, if I'm honest. So, to prove that I'm not scared of you guys (lies!), welcome to my personal 12-Steps.

My name is Leida, and I'm a Lost Girl. You won't find the definition of Lost Girl in the Urban Dictionary or in Encyclopedia Britannica (unless Beyonce puts it in a song, in which case, it'll be common vernacular real quick). There's probably some proper DSMV category definition for people who fit the bill, but those of us who share the name don't need any of that. We know who we are, psychological reference book or no.

We're the ones who along the journey learned that the way to fill the holes that hurt us so badly was to compromise our boundaries. We've had at least one internal monologue that sounds like this: "I'm willing to compromise my boundaries in order to ...[]" fill in the blank. To be loved, to feel good, to avoid pain, to be seen or heard...and I'm sure you could each add to the list. We decided that we'd rather let a person or circumstance walk all over what we know to be best for us, in order not to feel badly anymore, even just for a moment. Then we chase the pain-free moments, stringing them together in a chain of bad decisions that chip away at our dignity, our personhood and our divine creation.

Lest you be reading this feeling like I'm killing you softly, describing your personal pain, please know you're not alone. Not by a long shot. My personal monologue has been for a long time that I'm willing to be treated any way, by any man, in order not to be abandoned. I'm the Lost Girl who always, always stays too long at the party. Let me explain.

My Lost Girl persona goes back a long way. I carry the last name of a man who didn't show up to the hospital on the day I was born, or for anything else in my life. Our interactions have been few, brief and perfunctory. He wouldn't recognize me if he ran into me on a street corner (this happened). On a conscious level, his abandonment didn't affect me--I had a wonderful stepfather who raised me--but even still, it left a mark--I developed a fear that I wasn't worth showing up for and that there was nothing I could do about it. From there, I learned by watching a string of men pass through my mother's life and the lives of her closest female friends, that men don't stay, no matter what you say or do. I also learned from the women's behavior that there were no lengths that a woman shouldn't be willing to go to get a man to stay--no matter how insignificant or ineffectual said man was, or how little he did to improve the landscape of their lives.

To my credit, it took a long time for this to become part of my personal story--I fought it. I remember the impotent anger I felt as a child, as I watched my mother accept the poor treatment of others--mostly men--in her life. I watched her return over and over to relationships and scenarios that diminished her, all because she believed having a man in her life, any man, made her somebody, and I hated it. Seeing this, I made a childish choice to avoid love, to avoid needing anyone, to avoid pain. Unfortunately, all that did was make me really unpracticed at relationships when the inevitable time came when my adult needs overrode my immature resolve. I dipped into the love/dating water a few times and failed. In my confusion, I fell into patterns I didn't even know I'd developed to cope. I unleashed my latent Lost Girl. Each time I didn't succeed at a relationship, I became more discouraged, taking each hit as a new abandonment. Since the guys weren't around to blame (not that they deserved to be--it's okay to decide not to love someone or commit to them), I turned my blame in on myself. My problem was obviously that I was too rigid, too closed off to what it really took to be loved by someone else. So, I gave a little, compromising the boundaries I'd set up to protect myself more each time (even the healthy ones), until the voice that chanted softly, do anything to avoid being abandoned, wasn't so quiet anymore. Instead of white noise, it became the soundtrack of my life. I was the best friend, filling in the spaces that a girlfriend wasn't currently filling in the object of my affection’s life with pseudo dates, covert make-outs, pillow talks, etc, until she did show up, leaving me relegated to the background, where, let’s face it, I’d always been anyway. Then I was a serial re-dater, returning to relationships that I hoped would get better, if we just gave it One. More. Try. What’s the definition of insanity? Yeah…

I lost count of the times I let myself be used, betrayed and lied to, all the while hoping that if I just held on a little longer, the Other Person would realize what a treasure I was and choose to do right by me. It never once occurred to me to do right by myself. Until one day, it did.

I woke up one day at rock bottom to see that I’d given up all my power. I’d been eating myself up with rage and feelings of betrayal against the forces that were conspiring to make me hate myself—forces I’d personally fostered. Anyone who's ever hurt me has only ever done it once without my permission. I’m the one who attacked her boundaries in order to control what I felt was out of my control. I let the shaming little voice in my head convince me that my bad decisions defined me and each time I believed that, the little voice won. I understand now that this is SO not true.

The distinction matters to me. As a Christian, I know that Jesus didn't wait until I quit my sinful ways to die for me, so that makes me pretty special, even when I continually mess up. The unconditionally loving mother in me knows that even when my son is the orneriest of the ornery, I still believe, hope and expect the best from him. I celebrate with him every time he succeeds and I grieve with him each of his failures, because he's worth showing up for, no matter how messy he is. I know that I still have principles, no matter how much I violate them, and that gives me hope to try again another day.

I am no longer willing to stay too long at the party, not when I’m not having a good time. It’s beneath me; beneath who I was created to be. And that shaming little voice in my head, trying to write my story? It's just plain annoying.

I guess that makes me a Recovering Lost Girl. See ya at the next meeting.

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.