It's the Little Things

I am a white lights on the Christmas tree kind of girl. The artificial tree I bought 2 years ago has about 7 options, including blinking (ugh!), and cycling through from white to colored and back again.

My buddy Andrew loves the colored lights, and we are in a sneaky battle with each other, changing it back and forth when we walk past to go to the bathroom, multiple times a day. We haven't spoken a word about it, and I love it so much!

It reminds me of when my teen brother used to do something similar to my mom. She was a fantastic florist, and when she would go on deliveries, she had large "Flowers by Margaret" magnetic signs on her car doors. Sometimes she'd drive around all day before realizing her signs were upside down, thanks to her firstborn pranking her.

Sometimes connection and I love you's come in funny forms.

Now when my high school boyfriend did deliveries for her and changed every single one of her radio presets from country and classical to whatever the hell he listened to, that was just plain rude.

Like, read the room, Dude.

A Language of Love

Do you know your love language?

Mine is words of affirmation. Kind, loving words go very far with me, and hurtful words sting more than almost anything else can.

Presents are okay, and I enjoy a good hug, but tell me I'm doing a good job, I'm capable, or I offer something of value to the world, and I will put my chin up and persevere even in the toughest of circumstances. I will stand tall for you or for whoever else needs it.

I've been going through a lot, feeling over-tired and overdrawn. Uncreative, unhealthy, and unproductive in the world. I find myself wondering if I'll ever settle into a groove for 2019, but then I discover it's 2020, so the answer is likely no. Sleep eludes me with a mashup of menopause, preschool parenting, and middle of the night worries about how my daughter is adjusting to college.

I wonder why I never bothered to set any goals, personally or professionally, and just coasted until somehow waking up at 50 feeling like life has been a series of reactions versus actions. I ponder if I only have 30 or 20 or 2 years left, whether I'll be satisfied that most days all I looked forward to was a big bowl of popcorn and a Netflix binge. Is this my offering to the world, during this one life? Morning comes too soon or not soon enough.

Andrew is in a stage where he wants all of me, all the time.

At my age, I never would have imagined being needed in this intense way again, and the adjustment has been steep. He is adamantly opposed to all things Tim right now, through no fault of Tim's. He is just taking the whole Oedipus thing about as far as a 3 year old possibly can. The other night he told me he hoped there were two heavens, so he and I could go to one, and Daddy could go to the other. Harsh. It seems this little guy wants to go to great lengths to let me know I'm his number one. I tell him he can love both Daddy and me. That there is enough love to go around. There's enough of all of us to go around.

Although it doesn't always feel like that way, because we are spent.

As winter darkness sets in early, making it feel much later, it's easy to just gather up some of the parenting pieces that have been Tim's terrain, such as the final tuck-in, or reading the last book, if it means a happy boy not getting all worked up right at bedtime. After all, we know this is a phase to ride out; we've been down these roads before. Just as Tim didn't have to sleep on the floor next to Margaret's bed forever like he did when she was two, this too shall pass. In fact, I know that was time well spent, because even at age 18, home from college, she'll still sometimes climb onto his lap. He's a stiff person, and she's a prickly one, but they still connect in this way.

So instead of Tim doing the tuck-in, I started doing it. Then we moved to having me sit in the big blue recliner after tuck-in just so he'd know I was near. Then it morphed into extended snuggle-time in bed. It helps him fall asleep more quickly, and it yields sweet conversation. But, oh, how I resisted because I knew he'd be back in our bed again in just a few hours, and wasn't this a lot of rigamarole to go through for just about 4 hours of separation? With the clock ticking on my precious hours of alone time?

I decided to try to reframe this when I saw a friend with four kids had put a small sticker on her car that read, "I get to do this." She uses it to remind herself that the hours upon hours in the car being present with her kids is special time-- away from screens and homework. A lot of good connecting happens then, even though it's not easy.

This connecting time been good for Andrew and me too, because it is a sinking into togetherness, rather than my pulling away, hiding in the bathroom with my phone and a piece of chocolate while he clambers to find me.

He feels it and I feel it.

But back to love languages. Tim has rarely been one to lift me up through words. Remember during premarital counseling when we wrote down our needs and I wrote, "I want to be told I'm pretty sometimes"? Even more than 25 years ago, I knew we had a disconnect on this issue. His view was that if we were getting married, I could assume he thought I was kind of neat, so what was the big deal? Even in the eyes of young love, which is blind to so many mismatches, I wanted to articulate a need, which went well beyond my looks and was more about affirming me as a person worthy of notice.

Over the years there have been a few stilted, "You. look. very. nice. in. that dress"  or "good job" comments, but not many. Yes, I knew I could have married someone who grabbed my butt and said, "Hey, Hot Mama!" but that's not the guy I fell in love with. I knew it going in. But to hit 50, with a butt that is far less grab-able or remarkable than ever before, and cosmic questions about your place in the world, it's possible to yearn to know that you take up space and are seen. Perhaps because I am a writer and a speaker, words help do that for me.

Margaret has long been more likely to speak to me with criticism than love or affection, even though I know she loves me. My role as a safe spot to land since Jack's death has meant my putting on protective layers so the harsh stuff can slide off.

Stiff and Prickly, remember?

Jack was the one who would tilt his head to the side say with a wry smile, "Aww... I love you!" It was usually after I'd said something clever, or vulnerable or goofy, and it made me feel close to him. Like he got a kick out of me, and as if there was a whole lot of LIKE wrapped in with the LOVE.

I've missed those words that poured out unbidden. Unstrained. Not trying to check a box on Anna's wants and needs list. I know Jack still loves me as I do him. Our love never had a chance to get to the stage where perhaps it would have been uncool to tell your mom how much you loved her. I know if I quiet myself, I can still hear him whisper "I love you" into my soul. I can see his love in the two bluejays at my feeder right now, and in the sweet but hazy memories that come to me in flashes, every single day.

But what does any of this have to do with Andrew, and sleep, and snuggling? Once I began to reframe this new nighttime routine, realizing that it is a sweet and temporary privilege, I've been able to not only sink into his twin bed giving him something he craves, but also sink into the love he gives me freely. "I love you SO SO much!" he beams, touching my face. "Oh, I just LOVE you!" "I love you and want to keep you forever!" These words affirm and fill me up after a long day at a challenging time of life.

Don't get me wrong. I don't think our kids are here to meet our needs. Nope. That is far too much to put on a child. It isn't healthy and it isn't fair.

But I do think that God knows that my soul has been parched for affirmation. That my world has grown smaller the past few years as career and accomplishments and even maintaining friendships have been overshadowed by the ever-present need of caring for a small child again.

He surely knows that the middle of the night doubts about what I've offered the world, and whether I'll have the stamina to do what's before me, can somehow be soothed by having a child, this child, who tells me, again and again, that I am beloved.

And I'm grateful.

Today

On soaking, rainy days like today, when phones beep with flash flood warnings, my family is on many hearts. But to me, they seem like any other day.

Why, I wonder?

I think it's because when I think of Jack, I think of his laugh, his understanding, his compassion, his great love for me. His hair, his speedy talk, his interests, his sleeping figure, his vise grip on my hand in the dark. Some memories are growing hazy, and I wonder what I've already forgotten, but I can't forget his essence, his soul, his love, his space in my heart. They are with me right now.

Even though I am less than a mile from the creek where he died and must drive over it many times a day, he is not the boy in the creek to me, and for that I am grateful.

I think that's why today can just be another day.

16

Sixteen years ago today I became a mom. It was like coming home.

 

Happy Birthday, Sweet Jack!

 

Love never dies.

 

 

 

6 Little Words

Years ago, I was helping out at Jack's Christmas party at school. I think it may have been 5th grade. One of the activities was to have the kids write something they could give Jesus for Christmas. I can't remember what they did after that-- perhaps we hung it in a tiny stocking on Christmas Eve. I do remember watching Jack as he sat, pencil in hand, and wondering what he would write. Would he take the assignment seriously, or would he make up something silly? The other kids were writing, and writing, and writing. Were the promising they would be more obedient in the coming year, be better siblings, or give their allowances to the needy? I never knew. But I did see Jack write something on his piece of paper and fold it up into a teeny tiny bundle. At some point later I had a chance to snoop look at it. This is what it said:

I want to love you more

 

6 little words.

I realized in that moment that my heart and my son's hearts were the same. There were many things I could do and could promise to "give" to God in the coming year, but my true desire was to love Him more. And I believed that loving Him more would help me love others better.

But even then, I knew I couldn't WILL myself into more love. I couldn't generate love either, although LOVING ACTIONS can often lead to feelings of love. I knew then, and I know even more now, that as long as I am living in this world with family, friends, neighbors, and strangers, I will need more love than I have. Slights linger. Hurts dull but resist healing. Expectations seem unmet. I don't love God as much as I wish I did (and He's, um, GOD), so how on earth can I love wretched humans like me? Especially me?

Last night Margaret and I finished reading The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom. Corrie tells of touring the world speaking of love and hope amidst horrible circumstances, something she learned first-hand while imprisoned in a concentration camp after helping Dutch Jews evade capture during WWII. At one of her speeches after the war, a former SS guard that Corrie recognized stretched out his hand to her. He was full of contrition as he thanked her for her message of God's forgiveness. Corrie couldn't shake it. All of the memories of the camp filled her mind and her heart. She couldn't lift her hand from her side. Despite God's faithfulness and provision, despite all she knew and preached about forgiveness, Corrie could not take his hand. It was simply too much to ask her to do. She prayed, but nothing happened.

"I felt nothing, not the slightest spark of warmth or charity. And so again I breathed a silent prayer. 'Jesus I cannot forgive him. Give your forgiveness.'"

"Into my heart sprang a love for this stranger that almost overwhelmed me. And so I discovered that is its not on our forgiveness any more than on our goodness that the world's healing hinges, but on His. When he tells us to love our enemies, He gives, along with the command, the love itself."

This made me think again of Jack's "gift" those years ago. 6 little words. It was nothing, really, that Jack could give on his own. Jack needed the receiver of the gift to do the providing, to be the giver of LOVE.

So perhaps the only gift I can give this year is really a humble, silent prayer. For more love to love God with, and for His love to give me what I so desperately need in order to love others.


More Love.

Love More.

Love.

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Heart Issues

Four year old Margaret started to cry in her booster seat. I looked in the rear view mirror. “What’s the matter?” I figured a tag was poking her, her socks weren't "just right," or she was hungry. With a defeated, gaspy cry, she answered, “Sometimes…sometimes I just have a hard time loving Jesus.” Woah. This was not even close to anything I expected to hear.

I had no immediate answer for her, so I turned it over to Jack, in the “way back” of the minivan. I didn’t know if he’d been listening, but I said, “Jack, is there anything you could say to Margaret?” I was used to his surprising us with wisdom and a near-adult understanding of issues. Maybe he had learned something in school that would give her comfort. I don’t know, but I knew I had nothing.

He responded quickly, “Well, I always knew that about you, Margaret…” Uh oh. Not what I’d been hoping for. Little boy Jack doled out judgment, not comfort, giving his sister the absolute last thing she needed. Maybe Margaret didn’t seem as devout as he did at all of six years old. Maybe he’d seen her do one too many shimmy dances  and donkey kicks during nightly prayers. Who knows? But in that instant, I saw in Jack’s response the response of so many people, the assumption that he could see into someone else’s heart.

I redirected the conversation, but not before saying, “You know what, Margaret?  Sometimes I have a hard time loving Jesus, too. I can’t see Him. It’s hard to love someone I can’t touch and feel.” I was 31 years older than Margaret, but in that moment, in her vulnerability, I knew she spoke a truth shared by me and by many.

And Jack’s reaction, although shocking at the time, reminds me of how often we judge, thinking we have a window into each other’s hearts. Thinking it’s our place to determine how devoted someone else is, rather than focusing on our own heart condition.  It's uncharitable, and unbiblical, “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s (4 year old sister's) eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?

I suppose, perhaps, that people think I have a strong faith. But just last week I had a really hard time loving Jesus. I begged Him to help make an impossible situation better, but it felt like I was speaking into the darkness. I told Him I trusted Him, but it was just so hard and scary. Much of what was going on felt far too close to almost 3 years ago when our world came crashing down, when our prayers weren't answered in the way we wanted.

And yet He came through. Man, did He come through, in powerful and miraculous ways! But what I've learned, and am still learning, is that He somehow comes through even when things don't turn out the way we want. Even when we are neglecting to address the planks in our eyes. And even when we have a hard time loving Him.

A Royal Birth

Am I the only one who cried when ridiculously beautiful Kate walked out of the hospital doors holding her precious baby yesterday?

I promise I was crying over how sweet the moment was, not because I was comparing Kate's hot mama self to my own waddling departure from the maternity ward wearing a mattress-sized pad inside hospital-issue undies and clutching that weird pink sitz bath thing instead of a baby. Well, I sort of promise.

I wonder if Kate and Will found the drive away from the hospital as terrifying as Tim and I did on the balmy March day when we brought Jack home. The sun shone so brightly. The world seemed too big and brilliant and scary for such a tiny baby. How could the hospital have let us leave with him? It seemed astounding, really.

But we found our parenting legs. We marveled in his beauty. We made mistakes. We learned how to parent not just A child, but THIS child. And it was hard, and good, and blessed.

I wonder if Will and Kate will argue when they feel frustrated and don't know how to best soothe their baby. Will they cry when they clip his fingernails and get a little skin? Will the first few baths feel more terrifying than flying a military chopper or walking down the aisle of Westminster Abbey in front of millions of people? Will they turn to baby books, God, and friends when they just don't know what to do?

That sweet nameless royal baby has everything going for him: money, privilege, and resources.
Those things will make his life easier in many ways and most likely harder in some ways.

But the most important thing he has is LOVE. So beautiful. I think that's why I was crying.

Sifting and Sorting

We have been doing house stuff-- purging and rearranging rooms-- as we strategize the next steps for our family.

I took it upon myself to take apart Jack's room. It was my choice, yet it was still unbelievably difficult. I do not recommend doing this before it's absolutely necessary. And for some, it could be fine to leave things exactly where they are forever. When my mom died, I took 10 years before I was ready, and I resented anyone telling me I should do it sooner. It was their problem, trying to control my actions and responses, not mine.

As you know, our family motto is, "The best things in life aren't things," and as I moved Jack's things and boxed many of them up, I wept, not over the objects, but over the hands that had arranged them just so. A Lego creation is just a Lego creation when I've moved it to a box, whereas when it's set up on a shelf, in a funny little tableau that tells a story, it's part of Jack.

I moved the new school shoes that had been waiting by his bedroom door, yet never got worn. They look so small now, even though they were slightly too large for him when I bought them. His friend Cortland came over to help me carry boxes. He knew how much Jack treasured his Legos, and he handled them with reverence and care. When I looked down and saw Cortland's enormous man-feet I bit the inside of my cheek to try to keep from crying. It didn't work.

I packed scout and baseball uniforms and butter-soft t-shirts, rubbing the fabric between my fingers, lifting them to my face in a futile attempt to catch a scent now long gone.

I found all his baby clothes and the baby calendar where I'd proudly written down when he said his first word, "Bird," at barely 7 months old. And I sifted through school work, which he'd kept neatly in a plastic tub, every single stitch of it, preschool through 6th grade. Every paper, every project, every doodle.

There was a lot of yearning, remembering, and loving as I did this. As I allowed myself many trips to the recycling bin for the things I didn't end up saving. I leaned over the trashcan-- full of notebooks, and binders and papers and things my son no longer needed-- and  the heavy lid came crashing down on my cheek. Tears sprang up again as a pink welt formed. Really? Really?

I made a ton of progress last Thursday, due mainly to the fact that my friend Cindy showed up unannounced and with boxes. We matched each Lego set to its instructions and original box (thanks for being a saver, Jack!) and we cried. It was Margaret's last day of school and I wanted to do the hardest part, the Legos, while she was gone. "Did you take pictures of the order everything was in?" she asked when she got home and surveyed the empty shelves. "Yes." "Good."

After she was in bed, I did what any mentally and physically exhausted mom does, vacuumed the shit out of the family room rug. I ran the vacuum roughly back and forth, jerking it this way and that in  frustration. But the stupid vacuum wasn't working and was dropping stuff right back out again. I took it to the kitchen to empty it over the trash can and investigate. When I pulled the bottom off, a square piece of paper blocked the suction. Three words in my messy handwriting, that I must have jotted down at some point when pondering Jack, my book, this life:

Love never ends.

I do believe this. With my whole heart. You can too.

Love like a Mother!

It has been a bone-crushingly disappointing week as I've been trying so hard to make decisions for our little family's future yet have encountered closed doors. I've had to let go of my plans, again. I'm getting a little tired of that, you know? If you are a pray-er, could you please pray for us as we figure out some next steps? Thank you! And if you wouldn't mind praying about my writing, that would be awesome, too!

Stopping by briefly today to share this picture of my dear mom with you. Twenty-five years ago today, my forty-six year old mom died while I held her hand. It was sudden and unexpected. For a while I was able to convince myself that 46 years was a long and full life, but as I'm almost 46 myself, I've changed my tune on that one.

If you are a mom, I want to encourage you in your mothering today. Even though I had my mother with me for only 18 years, she greatly impacted my life through the way she lived hers. You can read more about her HERE and HERE and HERE and HERE. You do make a difference!

But I know summer is starting, and we may already have had some parenting lows in the .02 econds since school got out. Or, we're scrambling through all of the end-of -the-year madness and feel like we can't get it all done.

I won't discourage you by telling you about my perfect mom. Because she wasn't perfect, but she was perfect for her three kids. She cussed. She was a closet smoker. She sometimes wore wooden clogs with silk dresses. And remember the time she made me take a pineapple right off the kitchen counter and give it to my fourth grade teacher as a gift? Well, I sure do. She also thought Wrangler shorts were the same as OP. Puh-lease. We never had fancy cars or gadgets, never took a real vacation, and we endured brutal Virginia summers without central air conditioning. But what we did have was a mother's love. And her heart was big enough to include many people outside our family, which showed us love doesn't run out and need not be hoarded. She did her best and didn't let the rest get her down.

When I think of the many lessons I caught from my mom in the years we had together, I am grateful for them all.

One was to find ways to keep smiling and laughing even when life doesn't go the way you planned.

Another was to just let the tears flow.

Thanks, Mom.

Jack's Birthday

Today is Jack's 14th birthday.

He arrived 2 weeks early, and left way too soon. We are doing well today, with lots of love and even a little bit of snow on the ground. I'm over at Momastery writing about how it's still possible to be an irritable shrew even in the midst of life and death and God and love.

Love you all!

Hop on the Bus, Gus

Yesterday I dropped Margaret off to board a bus for a Middle School church retreat.  She was anxious about being so far from home and so was I, but after some deep breathing she bravely climbed on the bus with her friends. I hope it will be an exciting, meaningful weekend for her.  

As the parents prayed in the parking lot for safe travels and for God to bless the retreat, tears streamed down my face.  I tried to hide them behind my sunglasses so Margaret would be neither freaked out nor embarrassed as she looked out the bus window. Of course she saw me. My friend Jenn gave me a hug and said, “She’s going to be fine.” I buried my head in her shoulder and choked out, “I’m not crying about Margaret.” She answered, “I know.”

So many moments that should be easy and joyful are so damn hard. Yesterday was just one small example, of the little battles and struggles that weave their way through every single day of loss. It’s as if our brains are operating on two tracks, and integration of these tracks could take a lifetime. One track is the here and now of living and loving and school and work, but there is always the parallel track of loss and what could have been yet will not be. Jack should have been on the bus with Margaret. The moms standing next to me talking about 8^th grade boys and how they always want to wear shorts in the winter should have been hearing me tell my own stories about Jack heading out to school or the retreat foolishly underdressed. I want my own 8^th grade boy stories about how fast they grow and how much they eat, but I don’t. Won’t.

Grievers function within society, and most days it appears pretty seamless. We volunteer at school. We shop. We stand around in prayer circles. People need to feel okay being open and natural around us, so as not to drive us even further apart from the world. We are not aliens, even though it feels that way. But there is a constant undercurrent of loss, a schism in our brains, which we gradually learn to adapt to. Most days we are able to operate on the level of the here and now, but sometimes the other part leaks out in church parking lots, and that’s okay too.

There must be safe places to be able to bring the loss to the forefront, to open the pressure valve of pain a little bit, without worrying about seeming completely hopeless or obsessive. I remember when Tim and I walked into our first (and last for now) meeting for bereaved parents just a few weeks after the accident. We came out so depressed and depleted. You see, we were still in a state of shock about Jack’s death, but also a state of being tenderly held up by the spirit of God. We sought hope and meaning in Jack’s death, and were so earnest in our desire to “be okay!” for Jack’s  sake  and ours. To see these parents who were still suffering  greatly many years after their children died, gave us a window into despair we didn’t want to see. Surely we would feel better than they did at 5 years out!

I didn’t realize then that the meeting was their safe place, as this blog is mine. Their pain and desire to tell their stories didn’t mean they weren’t functioning in society, holding jobs and taking care of their families. It just meant that in the day in and day out of living with and adapting to the two track existence of life and loss, those meetings were one place to openly talk about the one track that is less visible, but very present.

I wonder if my dear friends on this blog worry that I’m obsessed with Jack and our loss. It would be natural to think that, and I too have wondered that about others who have loved and lost. It’s a natural concern. We want our friends to get better. We want them to thrive. We wonder if it’s healthy to talk so much about the one who is gone.

When I write about grief, you don’t see much about the soccer carpool and Girl Scout cookies and math homework (gah!) and shoe shopping and school projects, and cooking (double gah!) but they are here. I promise.

 It’s okay to worry. This is a worrisome situation.

But in days filled with soccer carpools and Girl Scout cookies and the like, this is a space I have like no other, a place to do the hard work of grieving that might so easily be swallowed up by those other things, and my TV watching schedule. Here, I can turn over ideas in my head, hold them up to the light, and examine them. I can cry out in the missing, the longing for the boy who should be with me in body, not just in spirit. And you show up to lift me, again and again, and to root for us.

In the examining and crying out, I’m hoping that someone else can be helped, either in her grief, or in supporting someone who is grieving. I don’t know how that works, through words on a screen, but I’m just trusting God on this one.

 

Dog Gone-it!

When Jack was 6 he went to his friend Michael's birthday party. It was a "fishing" party where the kids pretended to fish in a baby pool and were each given a goldfish in a baggie to take home.

Except Jack didn't want one.

Upon some prodding, he agreed but said in his first-grade voice, "I'll take him, but I'm not going to grow fond of him." He did not name the fish.

Good thing, because by the time our 20 minute drive home was complete, the nameless goldfish was dead.

A year or so later, we were ready to get a dog. Everyone but Jack. He wanted a dog so badly, but upon doing the math, figured he'd be heading off to college when the dog died. He decided that loving and losing a dog would be too painful and traumatic.

So we waited.

When Shadow became available, Jack really, really wanted her. He had to revisit his fears about losing a dog and weigh whether the pain would be worth it. Before long we were heading a few hours south to pick her up.

In the last moments before our neighbors knocked on our door inviting the kids to play in the rain in early September, Jack was playing "hide and seek" with Shadow by hiding under her dog bed and making funny noises. Having been cooped up in the house all day, Shadow enjoyed getting riled up by her "brother." They had, despite Jack's fears, grown incredibly close.

A few days ago I took Shadow to the vet for her "Well Dog" appointment, because nothing says Monday morning quite like toting around a stool sample. The verdict: Shadow is the picture of health, but Jack is gone. Weird.

And now I think about what Jack worried about. About the idea of loving and then losing. Is it true "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never loved at all"? What do you think?

I am very grateful for the 12 years we had with Jack, but I wonder if I would be willing to trade the pain we're feeling now for having never seen those brown eyes, that subtle dimple, that crazy floop of his hair? To never have been given a bony hug from a too-thin boy or heard that incredible laugh?

No. No. No.

Definitely not.

But Jack, I need to tell you-- it was so terribly easy to grow fond of you.


Funny video of Shadow's antics when we first got her:

The Big Day

Happy Valentine’s Day, or is it? My husband informed me he would be out of town on Valentine’s Day this year and asked if I would mind. I told him that my expectations had fallen so low in the past few years that his whereabouts wouldn’t matter too much. He was wounded and couldn’t figure out why I felt this way.

Hmmm. Our Valentine’s problems started two years ago. For weeks the stores advertised the big day. The kids and I had red and pink cards out all over the place as we got ready for class parties. The big day arrived. At breakfast I put out the cards and the gifts I had picked out for my husband and the kids. No card, no word from dear husband. Nothing. That night, at about 11 pm, I could stand it no longer. “WERE YOU PLANNING ON DOING ANYTHING FOR VALENTINE’S DAY?” I asked with clenched teeth. His response, “Well, I called you from the office today. I wouldn’t have done that if it hadn’t been Valentine’s Day.” Gee, thanks for making such a Herculean effort.

I told him I was beyond peeved and explained that when everyone around you is getting some sort of recognition on Valentine’s Day, it stinks to be overlooked. Three days later he came home with a special gift for me. A $300 i-Pod with a red case. As I opened the box, my 5 year old daughter asked the question that I was thinking, “Is that for you or for Mom, Daddy?” It was indeed for me, but to me it felt like a little too much, a lot too late.

Now I’m sure the men reading this are thinking what a high maintenance person I am and how they are glad they aren’t married to me. The women, I hope, will have a shred of compassion-- more so if they know that at the time we had just come off of a pretty stinky 10th anniversary at which time I had clearly and calmly stated my expectations when it came to the marking of romantic holidays. I wanted a card, purchased for the occasion, verbal acknowledgement of the special day, and some sort of small gift, not picked out by me.

Well, you can imagine that after this big brouhaha two years ago I was expecting last Valentine’s Day to be much better. At breakfast I found a short note, written on his everyday stationery (after he had seen the card and gift from me). No gift, no word of acknowledgement, and not even last year’s obligatory phone call from work. Perhaps I should tell you that he was leaving the next day for a weeklong ski trip with “the boys” in Utah. With a new set of skis and boots.

I admit I was pretty sure that since my husband had a lot of making up to do for the year before, and he was leaving me alone with the kids for an entire week, I’d soon be feasting on some pretty impressive chocolate. No dice. As he came home late that night from work, stressed out and needing to pack for his big trip, I mentioned my Valentine’s disappointment. He appeared blindsided.

First tack: “We don’t DO Valentine’s Day. It is just a stupid Hallmark holiday.” Ugh. Second tack: “What are you complaining about? Last year I got you an i-Pod.” Double ugh. He didn’t appear to remember any of the drama surrounding the extravagant electronic gift that he’d been using daily ever since. Tack three: “Well, I was going to order you flowers next week from my ski trip, but now you’ve ruined the surprise.” If he hadn’t left town, I think I would have killed him.

This year, I laid out my expectation that we would, indeed, commemorate Valentine’s Day. I reminded him that being recognized on this “Hallmark holiday” was important to me. He gave me a blank stare and said, “What are you talking about? Didn’t I give you a spa certificate last year?” Ack.

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Well, I can’t finish this entry the way I intended because my husband came through with a slam-dunk! This morning (2/13), he woke even earlier than usual and set up my Valentine’s gift—a digital picture frame loaded with 200 photos of family and friends. It was playing in the kitchen when I stumbled in to say goodbye to him. He had already cut up a melon and a pineapple for us to eat while he was away (I’m not a good fruit cutter-upper), and manhandled an enormous limb last night’s ice storm brought down in the middle of the driveway. So, on the day before the “Hallmark holiday,” he surprised me with an incredibly thoughtful gift and several acts of service to boot before I’d even rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.

The “card” was a yellow piece of scrap paper with writing on the back, but we can deal with that next year.