So, how’s your Valentine’s Day going? Surrounded by roses and chocolates? Breakfast in bed? Dinner plans and the kids staying at Grandma’s?
Or do you just want to punch all the gooey-eyed couples out there in the mouth with all their hand-holding and canoodling and general getting-in-the-way-ness?
Can you guess which side of the fence the Gluestick family falls on?
Put it this way: football is more important than togetherness (even with Boo away at her first Brownie sleepover) and thus Teflon Man is currently watching his home team lose at Bolton. And I’m guessing my sister’s managed to not get a Valentine’s Day proposal again as her boyfriend is with Teflon Man.
I really should get today’s paper to check out romance’s obituary.
But this is not the worst Valentine’s Day ever. Not even close. Nor were the ones where I felt like the only person not to get a card. Or the one where I did but my secret admirer was truly grim.
Nope the worst Valentine’s took place 20 years ago. I’d had the twins the day before. I was facing life as a single mum.
I felt as though my entire world was about to fall out of my hoo-ha, had a stomach made of blamange…with a damn great black lie down the middle of it (WTF is that about?!)…and a bazillion hormones taking me on the greatest emotional roller coaster of my life. My pyjama bottoms were blood-stained, I’d spilt tea down my only jumper. I looked a hot mess and felt like one too.
Meanwhile, on the communal maternity ward I was surrounded not just by happy couples sharing their loved-up joy, but by happy new über loved-up families. They all gazed at each other with utter adoration. (And, to be honest, fair enough; those first new baby/new family days are precious. And besides, you can bet your arse a few nights later, once the sleep deprivation had kicked in and the parental experience had become all too real a fair share of them would have been squabbling over nappies and crying in the dark.) But on that day, with cubicles of goo-goo parents and red roses on top of baby congratulations flowers, it was your usual Valentine’s hell squared!
Meanwhile, several corridors and two flights of stairs away, the twins lay in the Neonatal unit, with tubes up their teeny tiny noses, connected to breathing monitors that would be set off when they pooed, tiny-size baby nappies that still reached their armpits and with Indy laid out under a UV lamp to help her jaundice. I didn’t even have my babies at hand to a) distract from the happy families and b) help get my head around the life-shift that had just happened to me.
I think I cried a river that day. And I couldn’t even escape to the store for the self-pity indulgence of ice cream and trashy magazines. (Because nothing puts things in perspective more than the failings of the rich, beautiful and famous.) Hospital food and Bounty pack pamphlets on cot death just didn’t cut it the same way.
So, yeah, crappy Valentine’s Days don’t even come close. Give me a day of ‘meh’ any February 14th. Personally I’m looking forward to ordering a pizza to devour entirely by myself later and then reading the last half of my book with no one complaining about the glow from the Kindle at 2am.
The only downside about Teflon Man being away today is that there was no reason to buy him the absolutely MOST PERFECT Valentine’s card for him:
Can you bring me out of my Valentine fug and share your Day of Love stories? Or does company line misery; do you have a worst Valentine tale you’d like to share?