So y’know I did a blog about Valentine’s Day last week and why it was stupid?
I might have got it wrong.
A few days afterwards Raffy came home with a card from nursery, made from his hand-print. The women who look after him at nursery had read the blog, yet still they let him take home this heartbreakingly sweet, guilt-inducing card.
Then today, after a night of nearly zero sleep – a heady mix of pregnancy hip, shoulder, bladder, throat and nose issues, interspersed with dreams about Donald Trump, I saw one of my dearest friends on the school run. She handed me a card.
‘Here, I found this on the floor,’ she said, ‘it’s got your name on it.’
‘How funny, ’ I said, eyes practically bleeding from tiredness, brain not really engaged.
When I got back home I discovered the hand-made Valentine’s Day card was from her.
Then Bear brought me this home from school…
It’s meant to be heart shaped, but the chocolate melted a bit in his pocket. Still, pretty flippin underhand to bring his Valentine’s Day hating mum such a horribly sweet present.
I was coming dangerously close to re-thinking my lifelong aversion to the day. To seeing it as something other than a collision of cheap sentimentality and over-priced tat. To realising that just maybe, it could be a day of people being extra-specially kind to each other. A day of telling the people you love, that you love them.
Thankfully, my husband stepped in, just in time. After not taking me out for a Valentine’s Day lunch, nor even for the coffee and cake he treated himself to this morning, he went to watch a neighbour home-kill a pig instead.
And while he was out a mystery gift arrived.
A gift he’d bought online, scheduled to arrive on FEBRUARY 14TH.
I began to wonder whether he might have been at it as well…
Although have you ever seen a happier man on Valentine’s Day?