F*ck You, Valentine’s Day

It’s not like I really need you, Valentine’s Day.

Sure, you’re a well-marketed, forced reminder to shower those you love with candy and gifts.  But I do loving things for my family all through the year.  I don’t just wait until that mystical day in February to let them know they are loved and appreciated.

Like the other day, when I made a big chicken pot pie for dinner, and my husband suggested I get ramekins so that next time I could make smaller, more time consuming, individual chicken pot pies.  I didn’t bludgeon him to death, because that’s love.

And when Connor asked me for the 378th time to watch Spy Kids, which we don’t even own, I did not run screaming down the street like a lunatic.  Because I love him (not because I was still in my pajamas).

Expectations.  I don’t like the expectations that you bring.  Because of you, “Every Kiss Begins with Kay” and Zale’s is pressuring me to “Be Brilliant.”

See, I'm already brilliant.

Look, I’m short and pudgy and I have a bad back.  My personality can best be described as a cross between Ouiser from Steel Magnolias, and Roseanne.  The last thing I need is candy, and if I can’t even afford to go on vacation then jewelry would just be ridiculous, and much too flashy for the local Wal-mart.

Except I'm not southern...

Except I don't cook Hamburger Helper and I have better decor...

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No, I don’t want a massage certificate because I don’t want to lay on a table, wrapped in a towel, obsessing over my cellulite.  Also, I will not be going out to dinner because the idea of paying 20% more for a meal than I would on a regular Saturday night makes the bargain hunter in me clench up tighter than an Emo guy’s skinny jeans.

This just can't be comfortable.

And the other reason, Valentine’s Day, that I not only don’t need you, but DESPISE you?

Because of you, and this ridiculous tradition of giving out small, cardboard cards to every classmate, my son had a MEP (meltdown of epic proportions) yesterday, that last an hour-and-a-half.  That’s right, screaming, crying, running out of the room, begging to go to bed early…all because he could not deal with writing 21 names down on those cards.

Those fucking, fucking fuck-cards.

And it’s been over a year since the last MEP.  I’m reluctant to say that, because so many parents are dealing with this daily.  But I was foolish enough to believe that we were past that hurdle, that we had progressed beyond those days.

But thanks to you, Valentine’s Day, you took a perfectly happy Sunday afternoon and you shit all over it.  And you made me take out my rusty ABA skills so I could “hold the demand” and steer us through the rocky waters and complete the task.

It may have ended well, with Connor’s mood improving once he finished, but I will not forget this.

I will not forget.

Perhaps I will begin serving Hamburger Helper often, and save up to take a vacation during Valentine’s Day next year.

And since we won’t be doing those damn cards again, hopefully it will be an MEP-free vacation.