Valentine’s Day is not my holiday. I didn’t really date in high school or college, so for those years it largely passed unnoticed.
The Valentine’s Day before I started dating the Jellyman, a creepy maintenance man from my building left a black plastic garbage bag outside my apartment. Inside there was a 3-foot Minnie Mouse doll that was supposed to talk. She was broken, so instead she just emitted a sort of whiny squeak. No lie.
The Jellyman and I started going out about a month after that (St. Patrick’s Day, now, that’s a holiday I can get behind), and by the following February we were engaged. That should’ve been a good Valentine’s Day, but I was sick. I spent the evening in the fetal position on the Jellyman’s couch.
Our first Valentine’s Day as a married couple was good, but unremarkable. I think we were both starting to sense that it wasn’t our day, and we were very cautious with our plans.
The next three went like this: huge and pregnant in my third trimester with Raisin. Exhausted and still nursing as Raisin neared her first birthday. Nauseated in my first trimester with the twins. Fun, fun, fun.
Last year we had a family dinner. Hott.
The Jellyman has been out of town this weekend, and Valentine’s Day, to a normal person, would seem like a good time to show him that I missed him and that I was lonely without him. But I’m scared.
I think Saint Valentine has it in for me, but I don’t know what I ever did to him.