3:38 PMme: It's valentine's day, and I don't have anything planned.
Coach: Me either.3:39 PM I was just trying to decide whether to buy you carnations from the hospital lobby (that I don't think are all that great) or get something somewhere else (and risk my life traveling there) or just do nothing and tell you I love you anyway.3:40 PM me: I was going to get you this fabulous thing that would be part you and part me. And it would hold our memories and create new ones for us and make us fall in love all over again, what with it being so great and all.
Coach: oh yeah? Sounds like a tall orderme: And then I had Grace on the 10th instead of the 14th.
well, she's less tall
But she's a pretty great gift.
me: How 'bout some discounted valentine's candy tomorrow instead?
Coach: Now we're talkin'.That's about how holidays go around here. We have celebratory intentions, but stuff happens. Take, for example, Sweetest Day, a completely made-up holiday that people around here celebrate mid October. As far as I can tell, its purpose is to ensure that dentists stay busy through the holiday season. Just in case Halloween doesn't do the trick (or treat).
Anyway, Coach came home from his shift on Sweetest Day eager to celebrate. He decided it would be fun to really buy $30 worth of the yummiest candy we could find and EAT IT. Sam and I thought that sounded like a pretty good idea. And then we got to the mall, and realized we are too cheap to be that impulsive and frivolous. So we shared a couple candybars from Godiva. They were good, but not quite the delicious indulgence I was hoping for.
That outing was reminiscent of our anniversary celebration last year. We ate at Wendy's. Or, more precisely, we ate in our car, after purchasing our value-menu meals at the drive-thru. We'd have asked you to join us, but we didn't have enough coupons to go around.
It's my fault, really. I'm always raining on the Coach's celebratory parade. Last year for my birthday, he got me a pair of Dansko shoes. He'd seen a shiny red pair on a co-worker and thought I'd like them too, so he asked her about them. She raved and raved, and Coach was sold. I really liked the shoes, but I needed a different size so took them back to make an exchange. And I found out how much they cost. It felt too extravagant for a stay-at-home mommy who doesn't really spend that much time on her feet. So I left, and never picked out new shoes in my size.
For my 30th birthday, the Coach spoiled me again. First, I stayed up way too late playing Zuma, the addictive video game the Coach bought for my birthday. And then I got to sleep in while Coach and Sam ran some mysterious errands. At one point during my lazy morning snooze, Coach came in to get something from our bedroom closet, with Sam trailing close behind him. Unable to contain his enthusiasm, Sam exclaimed "cake, candles, candy!" Coach said, "I have no idea what he's talking about." Hours later, I came downstairs to a birthday bonanza unlike any in my previous 29 years. It was everything Sam (and I) could hope for in a party.
And I guess that makes sense. Because the Coach is all I could hope for in a Valentine, and all Sam and Grace could want in a Dad. And even when all I can muster to show him how much I love him is the promise of past-date candy, he loves me even more. It's a good thing, because I love you too, Coach. I love you. I love you. I love you.