I remember making valentines for my mother when I was in grade school. (Funny how we never made them for our dads.) I also remember making out valentines for every kid in my class. And getting one from every kid in the class. And I remember aching for valentines from the boys I loved. One in particular. All through grade school I loved Larry Heckner. In the sixth grade I wrote VO-CAB-U-LARY on the front of my vocabulary notebook as a kind of code. Only my best friend knew why I’d written it that way. (Do you remember that, Martha?)
But these days I could care less about valentines. And it’s not sour grapes; I have romance in my life, thank you very much. My kids think that my husband and I are weird because we never do anything to celebrate our relationship. We never go on dates; we barely even celebrate our anniversary. (One year we celebrated our anniversary by rearranging the furniture in our living room. And we were quite pleased with ourselves afterwards, too.)
I would rather have someone tell me they love me every day than get a card or gift on Valentine’s Day. And my husband does that to a “T.” He’s always kissing and hugging me and saying he loves me and thinks I’m beautiful. (He laughs at my jokes, too.) I’ve had other husbands who never forgot a special occasion, but they were also never affectionate (unless they wanted sex). I wouldn’t trade the attention I get daily for a Valentine any time.
In other words, for me, every day is Valentine’s Day.