The Morning After

So it's February 15th, which was officially one of my very favorite days as a kid, because the frickin horror that was Valentine's Day was over for another year.

I used to dread Valentine’s Day, because there's nothing like an international marketing blast about romance to make a person feel entirely unlovable.

While the shop windows boasted giant colorful displays of toot you could buy for ‘The one you love.’ I was pottering through life, yearning for that special fictional someone to appear and rescue me from the spotty-faced oiks - which by the way, were completely age appropriate as I was definitely a spotty-faced oik myself. In truth, the person I was looking for at that time, was as unrealistic as the cheesy fake roses on sale in the shop windows.

But while we’re on the point, why is it that much of the stuff you can buy ‘for the one you love’ is truly frickin’awful? Fuck sake, a cuddly bear with an expression that they've just pooped themselves by surprise, holding out a love heart that proclaims ‘I wuv you.’ What part of that says, thanks for being my life partner? And also, what the hell is the thing with the padded cards? You heard me. Padded cards. What the hell are they about?

Here's an absolute fact, and I'm not at all totally lying, but the padded card was intended solely for people who live in padded cells.

And yet, back in the day, I wanted all that bullshit. All of it. I thought it would mean somehow that I mattered. Because there is nothing so persuasive as targeted marketing on any person who might be feeling a wee bit lonely.

You see, what I really didn't know then is that nobody really wants someone to rescue them. The perfect partner is someone who might hold your hand and remind you that you’re perfectly capable of rescuing yourself, and then celebrate like Hell with you when you manage to do that. Honestly, if wrinkly old me could have sent a message back to teenage spotty oik me to let them know one day Mark would arrive, I could have saved myself a lot of completely unnecessary heartache.

Anyway, back to the horrors of Valentine's Day. Luckily, I was saved from much of the mortification at school of being nobody’s valentine, because every year my Mum used to send me a card. It would arrive through the post, signed from ‘a mysterious admirer.’ As it turns out, I was frickin’ terrified of having ‘a mysterious admirer’, so eventually she confessed it was from her.

I've always given my own kids Valentine’s since they were toddlers. But a few years ago, I stopped doing cards as I reckon it probably feels a bit weird to still be getting a Valentine card from your Mum, when you have an actual girlfriend. Also, they -like me- never know what to do with cards afterwards. I mean, here’s the thing, if someone sends you a meaningful card for a specific occasion, what are you meant to do with that card when the occasion is over? Can you bin them?

I have that problem with cards generally. For that reason, I never send sympathy cards, as I remember when my parents died and being stuck with a pile of cards and not knowing what to do with them afterwards. Like, can you throw out a sympathy card? I reckon that’s probably worse than throwing out a Valentine.

Although, I do have it on great authority that it's perfectly acceptable to throw any card out if it's a padded card. In fact, if it's a padded card, you can throw it out even before you’ve read it.

Anyway, rather than pass on the card conundrum to my kids, every year I make each of them a small knitted heart. Something that sits in between the pages of a book, or takes up space in the random clutter drawer, or becomes a little mat you put your cup on. That way, when I’m no longer around, they’ll have a ton of daft wee knitted hearts to remember not only how their mother was completely certifiable, but also how very much they were loved.

Though, before I sound way too soppy, I should tell you that as usual for Valentine’s Day, Mark and I gifted each other several bags of steer manure as it turns out this is the perfect time of year to feed the garden hedges (thank you St Valentine) and also, if you really have to buy bullshit, then at least it ought to be useful.

I also made him some chocolate-covered marzipan hearts as he really does prefer things homemade rather than bought - weirdo. And he bought me a three-quart crockpot, because that was my heart's desire - I am ever practical. And we celebrated Valentine's night with a games night -get your head out of the gutter- playing completely non-sexy board games with a group of friends we love.

And I have to tell you, Valentine’s Day on the whole was completely lovely - apart from the moment when I caught Arthur eating dog poop in the yard (it might even have been his own), and I walked into the kitchen to find Ripley pottering around, having let herself in, and I had to put her back into the chicken coop.

So yes, it was great, but not exactly perfect, because the only place the perfect life exists is in the projects of marketers, and in the minds of teenage girls standing in front of shop windows.

Anyway, as I'm not a complete cynic, I thought I would end this Note with a Valentine’s poem for you.

(And can I just tell you, my kids would tell you this is the perfect gift. The way I say the word poem makes them howl with laughter. Sometimes they try to trick me into saying it, by asking me stuff like, “Mom what did William Wordsworth write?” and then congratulating themselves with much hilarity when I answer. Honestly, sometimes they are not deserving of my knitted hearts.)

Anyway, here's my specially composed Valentine's poem for you.

Roses are red. Violets are blue.

You're your own individual miraculous, magnificent human being, and you are irreplaceable.

So please don't fucking forget that.

You're welcome.

Till next week,

Lynn

Xo

PS: If you click on the heart emoji to like this post because it’s Valentine’s Season and that’s all about hearts and it will teach my algorithm to appreciate the existence of love :D Yours needily xo

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The Morning After - Audio