When Don and I were courting, I was thrilled to have a Valentine, for a change. I couldn't wait to get roses delivered to my job, a sign visible not only to me, but to everyone, of his love.
The roses never came. I got a lovely card, brought over to me that night, but no roses delivered to my job. No flowers at all delivered to my job. No flowers, period. Nothing but the card on Valentine's Day.
Don had sent me a small dish garden of roses about two weeks before Valentine's Day with a note that February X (I don't remember the exact day that this arrangement was delivered) was Valentine's Day in his book. I thought it was a special expression of his love, until the actual day came and went and the shocking reality began to sink in. Those were the only Valentine's flowers I was getting.
I got up the nerve sometime later, probably after we were married, to ask him about it. He explained that the price of roses tripled a week before Valentine's Day and he thought it was price gouging and refused to pay those prices. So he had bought my roses while the prices were "still reasonable".
Needless to say, he's not the biggest romantic in the world.
Nobody at work really believed I was dating someone seriously. There had been several guys for long periods before Don, but I was never serious about any of them. We dated, they proposed or got serious, we stopped dating. When Don came along, I knew he was the one and I was committed to the relationship, but none of my work friends were convinced he wasn't going to go the way of all the others. Flowers would have gone a long ways towards convincing them of our seriousness. But there were no flowers.
Once Don and I married, I explained the importance of flowers ACTUALLY ON Valentine's Day to him. That first year of our marriage, he tried. He apparently ordered a dozen roses from the florist for me and they were scheduled to deliver them to my office, but I was newly pregnant and already having problems with my pregnancy. I left work that day before the roses arrived. The Security Officer on duty, who worked for me, sent the flowers back and told the florist to call Don. He decided to have them deliver the roses when I returned to work. I never returned. I was hospitalized and, eventually, quit work to be a stay-at-home mom. Once again, no flowers.
A couple of years ago, after watching me looking longingly at other people's Valentine's bouquets for years, Don finally broke down and showed up with a dozen long-stemmed roses that he had bought for me at the grocery store. I was thrilled. It took about 9 years, but I got roses. Not florist-delivery roses, but roses, all the same. Like I said, not a romantic.
After 5 years ago, I was fussing at Don on some occasion because he gave me a beautiful card but hadn't written my name on the envelope and hadn't signed the card. I asked him if he were saving it, in pristine condition, to either resell or to pass along to his next wife. I said something like, "The least you could do is write something meaningful in the card that you feel about me."
"Patti," Don said, "you know I'm not much of a talker and I don't really know how to tell you how I feel. So, over the years, I've worked very hard at picking out just the right card. I spend hours looking at the cards, until I find just the right one that says exactly how I feel, what I'M thinking. There's nothing left to add. The card says it all." That was quite an eye-opener to me.
Recently, I've felt a little insecure about my parenting skills. I asked Don last week if he thought I was a good mother. "Of course," he answered, his pat answer to every question I ask. I pressed further, "But do you really appreciate me? Or am I just the maid or the homework tutor?" Again, "Of course I appreciate you." It's not that he's insincere - I'm sure he means it - it's just that when the answer's always the same with the same intonation and inflection, you begin to doubt that it's sincere.
This morning, when I went into the kitchen, there was a large envelope with "Mommy" scrawled on the front. I opened it up to find a beautiful card with a satin ribbon and white lace, adorned with a picture of a vase full of red roses that read, To my Wife. I'm grateful for you."
On the inside the card said, "I may not be the best at telling you my feelings, but I notice and appreciate you, the things you do and the way you do them, all the time. I mean that. Not a day goes by that I don't look at you and think to myself, "I'm a lucky guy." Even though I may not say it, I am still grateful deep inside for all you bring to our marriage, thankful for the little nurturing touches you wrap around each day ... and glad to be married to someone so warm, so giving, so wonderful. Happy Valentine's Day." Handwritten at the bottom was the note, "I love you very much, Don."
Um, big gulp, knot in my throat. The boy's learning. The envelope addressed, the card signed. And could it respond more appropriately to the concerns I've had of late?
I don't even care if I get flowers. This card says it all.
No, sweetheart, I'm the lucky one. Happy Valentine's Day, Don. I love you.
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