Listen, I like days focused on superfluous attention and endless chocolates as much as the next narcissistic pudgestress. Maybe even more. But sometimes Valentine’s Day just looks a lot like real life.
And our real life is a hilarious hot mess.
Take today, our fifth Valentine’s Day as a couple:
As I was staring at my phone trying not to wake the tiny tyrant who was taking up my whole bed, my husband mumbled something in the doorway. I automatically responded, “You have a great day, too.” But he didn’t respond and I could tell he was staring at me, so I looked up at him expectantly.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Oh, right. “Haha. Uhm, thank you! Happy Valentine’s Day. Here, have a hug.”
“Well thank you, dear. A real hug. Wow. You shouldn’t have.” His love language is sarcasm.
But that little exchange got me to thinking silly things about love and grand gestures and all the warm fuzzy things one tends to think after shunning their beloved on a holiday for romance.
I soon sent a follow-up text asking my husband if he’d like us to bring him some lunch. He took the bait and I set about getting all three of us as adorable and coordinated as possible.
Seriously, we all matched. And I even put on a dress. When my daughter saw me, she said, “Oh! Mommy’s a ballerina!” It’s because it’s so rare for her to see me not looking 80 percent homeless.
As we drove to pick up a romantic lunch from the Chick-fil-a drive-through, I thought of how lavishly my husband would praise my efforts to provide him with such a beautiful family for lunch companions. We would gaze lovingly at one another over the shared waffle fries, and he’d declare that this day – this Valentine’s Day – was the best one yet because of how much his heart was blazing for his ballerina wife.
When we arrived at his office, I called him to let him know we were there and could he please come help carry all of this stuff, thankyouverymuch.
But he didn’t answer. So I managed to get a two-year-old, an 8-month-old, a diaper bag, three separate Chick-fil-a bags (what? why? Use one bag!), and two milkshakes out of the car and propelled in the general direction of his door. Fortunately, he saw us as we were coming in and managed to open the door for me, but instead of being greeted with a passionate kiss of approval, he said, “Oh, sorry! I’m still on a call. Wait here in this other office for a minute.”
So much for a grand entrance.
While we were waiting, I smelled it. That distinct smell of escaped baby poop. Valor smiled at me maliciously, a clear grin on his romance-ruining little mug.
Guys, he had been in overalls. And not just any overalls. These adorable little grey ones with red straps and he was wearing a cabbie hat. The kid could have been in a Baby GAP ad. He was freakin’ adorable. And he ruined them all with his poop bomb. I don’t want to go into too much detail, but it was basically smeared all the way into his armpits.
My husband came back to retrieve his cast-aside family, and he ushered us into his office. Then we discovered just how bad the poop situation was. It was sad to ruin his perfectly coordinated Valentine’s outfit, but the real fun was just beginning.
I didn’t bring extra clothes. Oh, except a jacket. Thank goodness I’d thought to bring that. It was a great comfort to have a light hoodie to zip over my NAKED, POOP-GREEN oompa loompa baby.
So my husband held the naked kid and ate lunch with our daughter while I ran to Walmart for emergency clothes. Walmart. What a strange place. But more on that another day. Walmart had exactly one outfit in his size. It had a dinosaur on the booty. So at least that was awesome.
As I was walking toward the cash register, my husband called to make sure I bought more wipes because our daughter had also had a great poop and we were now out.
Oh sure, no problem. Love you.
I made it back to his office in time to shove the baby in the dino pants, elegantly scarf down my salad, and say goodbye before my husband rushed off to another meeting.
But to be honest, that probably wasn’t the worst Valentine’s Day ever. I mean, at least I got a milkshake. And my daughter thinks I am a secret ballerina.