Happy St Valentine’s Day Massacre

“Happy Bawentime’s Day, Mamma.”  This, for the eighth time today.  And don’t ask me why she calls me Mamma.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Bailey.”

“Is it my Bawentime’s day or your Bawemtime’s day?” She knows we all get a special birthday but hasn’t quite figured out how the rest of the holidays work.

I will admit, Valentine’s Day is kind of fun when you have kids.  Get them a little heart shaped treat from the dollar store and they are happy.  Let them pick out a gift for Dad from the dollar store and they are thrilled.  It’s an exciting day to do lovey things with them, but that’s about where the fun stops and the cynicism begins.

Last year on Valentine’s Day I went on a bit of a Facebook tangent how it was a day that served no purpose other than to make single people feel badly about being single and is an excuse for those in a relationship to get flowers and/or presents and/or laid.  I surmised it’s better to receive a gift “just because” and it’s better to have a roll in the hay because you’re feeling a bit frisky.  It might have had something to do with my being seven months pregnant and knowing there wasn’t a great chance that I’d feel like turning on the Valentine’s Day after-party charm.  Perhaps it was because I had a friend who spent the day alone, surrounded by a bunch of swooning couples whom she would have loved to be a part of.

Maybe they should promote Harlequin romance novels as Valentine’s gifts, that might put us in the mood.  It sure would more than a compulsory bunch of thorn-producing plants with a grossly inflated price tag.

But alas, even with my ranting I am not off the hook.  I got Mike some hockey elbow pads.  He picked them out.  I didn’t wrap them.  We’re so romantic.

So instead of wishing you a happy Valentine’s Day I will wish you a happy St Valentine’s Day Massacre.  It’s close enough.  May your belly be full of overpriced chocolates and your nose be assaulted by the cloying scent of flowers while you wine dine 69 your partner.  Or cry by yourself, depending where your life is on the romance scale.

I’m off to find a Harlequin.

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