Love Story

With all the ring-pops and conversation hearts littering the house, it’s easy to remember that Valentine’s Day is practically here. It’s a happy little holiday, isn’t it? Tucked into the crappy winter months, it’s a brief beacon of pink and sweets in the cold, bleak stretch between New Year’s and springtime.

It’s a holiday I like, as long as I don’t feel pressured to overdo it with the craftiness and the fancy-ness (see my post entitled I Heart Simplicity from last February). So long as we keep things sufficiently simplistic, I am perfectly happy to eat some frosted pink sugar cookies and let my husband buy me a gift.

Valentine’s Day has certainly evolved in the nearly sixteen years of our marriage. As it is a holiday referencing all types of love, I’ve been mulling over how we define love.

Here is how I define it:

Love is the hubs who puts on rubber gloves, grabs the mop, and cracks a poop joke when a Code Brown wafts to our noses.

Love is the eleven-year-old brother who plays Xbox with the four-year-old brother, even though it’s kind of high-maintenance.

Love is the same big brother who kindly points out new vacuuming venues to Jack, and who totes baby brother around all the time in order to better make him laugh.

Love is when Jacky’s bus puffs to a stop at our door at 8:45 AM. He and I both really love it when Doris and Missy arrive.

Love is not freaking out when I find that Jack has done a number two on the floor of my car.

Love is keeping calm when Jack intentionally wets his pants and then laughs about it while stitting next to me on the couch during the State of the Union address. Love is cleaning it up without bitterness.

Love is a smiley, chatty, pudgy, happy baby who is SO BIG! And who loves books, brothers, and baths.

Love is the hubs who willingly sees the movie adaptations with me of all the books I’ve read. Love is also Date Night every single week, religiously.

Love is the preschooler watching Curious George while drinking chocolate milk and eating blueberries.

Love is relinquishing perfection’s quest and finding satisfaction in the French toast and the folded five loads of laundry and the not-very-clean bathrooms and the esoteric bedtime routines of today.

Mark Twain said, “Happiness is wanting what you have, not having what you want.”

I’m happy to report that this Valentine’s Day, I am happy and in love.

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