The Anti Valentine or Love Anytime
Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. You probably thought I should have written a love poem or an Ode to my husband on that day dedicated to all things love, but it is in my nature to protest. Also, he is well aware of my feelings on the subject of Valentine’s Day. We tend to avoid mushy overtures on that particular day, though he manages to sneak in the obligatory flowers and I don’t protest my favorite chocolates arriving through the front door. No, my gripe is with the larger picture, the masses congregating with their hearts on display, the gestures overtly manifested.
See, I’ve written here about how my husband will show up with flowers from the supermarket and how that’s ok with me. I know some women who would find fault with this but I say, if your husband is at the supermarket picking up groceries in the first place, you probably have a keeper. So, yeah, he’s good with the spontaneous gesture of affection, the just-because-I-care token of love. But my husband is also good at the maintenance.
For us, this is Sunday mornings. He lets me sleep in. He keeps it quiet, kept this way with loud shushes, “mommy is sleeping.” I hear him do this but still I snuggle into my blanket and feign sleep, stay in that somnolent state as long as I can. Then, when the sun is just too bright or the urge to wake too great, I poke my head from out of my cocoon and reach my arm over to the nightstand and pick from my pile of to-read books. This also being another of the Sunday morning luxuries afforded me by my hushed crew.
It is at this point, like clockwork, that I hear the engine rev and I know a treat will shortly be on its way. Soon, there are tiny feet tromping up the stairs, a knock on the door, a little face peeking through the crack, “she’s awake, dad.” My little girl screams down the stairs and if I hadn’t been awake before, I am now. With careful steps, tiptoes almost, she heads my way, two hands wrapped around a cup as big as her head. I’m surprised she can carry it at all, I should be surprised my husband lets her carry it.
“Thank you so much. You are such a big girl.” It used to be my son and now she has taken over this big kid task. I show her my appreciation with a big smile and an even bigger hug. “Daddy got this for you.” She hands off the praise so easily, yet beams and hugs me tight.
I wait until she runs out before I take my first sip, relishing the last part of my morning ritual, the hot chocolate that accompanies my reading, my alone time. I love my husband. I love that he has created this routine for me, these moments of pure bliss every Sunday morning for the last few years. I so enjoy them. They would be impossible without him and the two little treasures that play their important roles perfectly. This is our version of love. And it shows up every Sunday morning in the form of silence, warm blankets, a good book, and a hot beverage.