As indicated by the fact that I am posting to this blog rather than out dining on dainty portions in a hushed atmosphere, we did not have major Valentine’s Day plans. But today was nice. It was busy with housework and the usual parenting minutia, and Jon is sick with round 647 of the Winter of Plague. But it was nice.

For the man in my life and me, this is not a season of high romance and frequent wining and dining. That’s probably one of those things that sounds terrifying to couples without children. See, the romance will die if we have kids. But you know, it’s not like that. It’s more like this:

Which may not make non-parents feel any better. But really, this is where we are, and it’s okay. It’s messy and hectic, and we’re really tired. And yes, we could use a date night. (Which is why we’re planning ahead for my birthday next week – hoo-rah!) But truly, these kids light up our lives. I vaguely remember those Valentine’s Days before kids, and somehow it seems now as if they were missing something. Today, I got to make heart-shaped pancakes for a pre-schooler who raved about how awesome they were and a baby who demonstrated her appreciation by devouring one as fast as possible and then smearing the residual almond butter in her hair. I did laundry and made beds and cooked a very pedestrian dinner of pea soup and cornbread. I dealt with tantrums and wiped butts and generally was nowhere in the neighborhood of romance. But I looked at the love of my life over the cluttered dining room table, and it was enough. Tonight he gave me a lovely necklace and a little card that told me he’s madly in love with me. My card to him said something about being the only Valentine for me through 12 years of the nitty-gritty everyday. You ask me, that’s what true love is.

Not that we won’t be counting down to the night out next week.