We don’t do Valentine’s day in our house. There will be no big pink envelopes lurking on the mat or bunches of curiously unscented overpriced roses sitting stiffly to attention in a vase. No chocolates (thank goodness) and no cuddly stuffed animals bearing squashy red satin hearts. The children will not be discreetly packed off so we can jostle elbow-to-elbow with strangers in a restaurant. And we will not feel the need to give our children Valentines cards or gifts (thank goodness that custom does not yet appear to have arrived from the
I will go home tonight as usual, make packed lunches and do all the stuff the boys need doing as usual. I will make dinner as usual. And Husband and I will probably watch something he has recorded for us because he takes the time to go through the schedules, picking out the programmes he thinks we’d like and recording them so I don’t have to and so that I don’t miss them. (He records anything with Peter Ustinov in it, for example.)
He will probably make me a cup of tea after dinner without even asking if I want one because he knows I nearly always do. He let me watch Torchwood last night without shaking his head in disbelief at the rubbish I watch or making any sotto voce comments regarding the gaping plot holes, even though I knew what he was thinking. He may, if he is home in time, come up to say goodnight to the boys after I have done so and, instead of turning out the light and leaving the room, he may lie down on the floor in their bedroom, with the light out and chat to the boys in the darkness about……well, I don’t know what about. Boy stuff. Father/son stuff. Gibberish, possibly. And if I jokingly demand to know what the Great Secret Boy Discussion was about, he will make a face at me and respond with the weird sound we all in this house refer to as “the squashed frog noise”, and which is considered an acceptable response to pretty much any question you may be asked.
Pretty much a perfect Valentine’s day, really.