All cynicism aside, I was more than bummed out when I learned Owen's second grade class isn't having a Valentine party this year. I've been saving cool shoe boxes, tissue paper and oatmeal boxes since autumn so he'd have a selection to choose from and build his totally awesome Valentine "mail box." I look forward to making the Valentine box more than scarfing all the chocolates in the world. We have a blast (well, I have a blast and Owen enjoys watching and listening to me have a blast.)
The fact that they're not having a party is also a polite hint that parents are not welcome. That's a damn shame. Despite modern education's attempts to equalize everyone at Valentine's ("every boy and girl must give a card to every other boy and girl") it's still a great sociological experiment watching the kids pass out their cards. Sometimes you can tell from beet-red boys tucking envelopes into a certain box that one or two of them already admire a sweetheart from afar. Some of the girls push sweaty red-and-white envelopes into boys' boxes with hopeful eyes cast down above a nervous smile.
Owen hasn't announced any potential sweethearts since we moved here, so I was looking forward to watching him for any indication of who the lucky gal may be. Is it my business? Of course not, but I'm a mother. I'm hopeless when it comes to potentially sweet and/or embarrassing moments when my kid's involved.
Valentine's was a bittersweet time for me every year. Although I was a lovely little girl, somewhere around third grade I blossomed into a tall, hefty gal with broad shoulders and big meat wrapped around big bones. That year, Mother whacked off my long hair -- once long enough to sit on -- into some horrible hairdo reminiscent of 1976 Dorothy Hamill meets 1977 Marie Osmond.
Needless to say, I was very seldom anyone's boy toy until I got to college. I would watch the pretty, petite girls rack up Russell Stover mini boxes and solid chocolate hearts in elementary school, teddy bears and single carnations sold by the student council in junior high, and florist-delivered roses during class in high school. I learned to play it off with cool detachment and outward cynicism, but secretly I held my breath every Valentine's Day in hopes that someone saw the real me and admired her, for whatever the reason -- at least enough to buy me chocolates.
Although my dad was a slouch when it came to most holidays, he always went overboard on Valentine's Day. My sisters and I would find little heart-shaped boxes of chocolates on our pillow the night before Feb. 14, and the florist always brought Mom scarlet red roses on V Day, whether Mom and Dad were speaking to each other or not. Sometimes he would send us girls carnations, pink and red. Looking back, I think it was his uncharacteristic display of emotion that caused me to secretly root for Valentine's Day, to champion the cause of romance and affection. It was one of the few times he wore love on his cuff, like a drop of rain on the desert.
When Chris and I got married, I instantly dropped my cynicism toward the holiday altogether, smothering him in romantic cards, decorating the house with paper hearts, etc. It took him, a fellow cynic in his own right, a couple of years to understand that I physically need flowers and chocolates this one day of the year above all others. I even told him why.
Now, I welcome the day, no matter who devised it as a money-making scheme or cruel joke on the singles. And maybe my reversal on the issue is why I get so into Valentine's for Owen. Whatever the reason, I'm just relieved I can stop pretending I don't care and join the fizzy-headed throngs crammed into two short aisles at the Hallmark store next week. Sometimes it's a relief to no longer stand out.
No comments:
Post a Comment