February, 2006
As I write this, I am on a plane, returning from a writers’ conference, pumped full of enthusiasm, confidence, and enough motivation to last at least one lifetime, if not two. I feel like a fourth grader coming home from camp after making a lifetime commitment to missions at the final night campfire rally.
I am also excited to see the fam – especially Mike who was gone for a couple of weeks immediately prior to my departure. (We high-fived in the hallway, he the in-coming parent, I the out-going one.) Yet I fear my return, that, just like the camper on a spiritual high who returns to find a world dumping water on their flames, I too will step into my laundry room to find piles of dirty clothes sucking the enthusiasm from my brain. I know that bill paying and our IRS Form 1040 will be the most creative writing I’ll get in the next couple of weeks. (Not that I’m saying I use creative writing on the 1040, mind you.)
Shortly after Mike had left on his trip, Ian came home from school all grumpy. He pouted his way over to a kitchen stool where he sat with a deliberate thud. I asked him what was wrong.
“I don’t have a valentine,” my six year old replied.
I was about to laugh until I realized he was serious. Then my heart broke. This was a sorrow I knew too well. I remember sitting in my desk at school, looking over the valentines to see if it were a girl’s writing or a boy’s on the envelope. The ones from girls I opened easily. But the ones from the boys, I’d hold until last. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, I’d slip my finger under the flap and start tugging. Holding my breath I’d pull the valentine out and slowly turn it over. If it were a “normal” valentine, like one with a puppy or kitty or flowers, I’d breathe easy. No embarrassment there. But there was one year – fifth grade – when I had a crush on JP. Oh, how I wanted a nice valentine from him. As I pulled one of the last valentines out of its envelope and saw his name scribbled on the back, I knew that this was it. Either it was a cute one and I’d know he liked me back or it was the dreaded skunk valentine. Everyone knew what those meant. There were one or two skunks in every box of valentines and you sent them to the kids you didn’t like. I turned it over. His answer was in black and white.
“I understand, sweetheart,” I assured him. “With Daddy gone, I won’t have a valentine this year either.”
We commiserated for a minute or two before he looked up at me, his white-blonde eyebrows arching up, widening he eyes in excitement.
“I gotted a good idea, Mom! Would you be my valentine?”
And that’s what makes it all worth it – worth the constant picking up and the cleaning; worth the laundry, the scrubbing out umpteen tire tracks from the Star Wars underwear; worth sweeping up a favorite dish that was broken; and worth putting off writing and with it, dreams of fame, fortune, and glory.
Where Ian is normally Daddy’s boy, in Mike’s absence I had more I love you’s, more hugs and kisses, more snuggle time than I ever would have gotten had Mike been giving them himself. Each morning, Ian would greet me with a “Good morning, Valentine” (giggle), and each afternoon, the same. Through the window, he would wave and mouth “Hi, Valentine” as he practiced his basketball. At every chance, he’d smile and I’d smile back.
It may be selfish, but it felt so good to know that my son chose the prettiest valentine out of his box for me – his own heart. I held his heart next to my own for two whole weeks. And it felt good.
Like a rock,
The Submissive Despot
Amy
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