Nineteen years ago, my then boyfriend surprised me on our first Valentine's Day together with tickets to the musical Carousel and a delicious dinner at a Japanese steakhouse. Yesterday, my then-boyfriend/now-husband and our first born came home at 8:00 (seems baseball practices don't celebrate VD) and ate the heated up remains of our taco bar. Two hours earlier, I shared chicken and refried beans with the two youngest and watched an episode of Paw Patrol I think I've seen 20+ times. Not quite as glamorous as the first Valentine's, but I went to bed last night with a contentment that sums up the last 19 years. As usual, there were no flowers, no cards, no chocolate or balloons. As usual, there were loads of laundry waiting to be folded and put away; there were busy bathrooms and showers and the smell of Axe seeping from under the doors; and by 10:30 there was quiet and four healthy and happy boys snoozing in rooms all around us, the best reminders of romance and love and hard work and ultimately success.
I'd never take anything away from those folks who go all out on February 14th every year. I enjoyed all the pictures on Facebook last night of fancy desserts and the pictures from the Daddy-Daughter dances the previous weekend. Sometimes I imagine a dressed up dinner date to a nice restaurant (read: anything not fast food), just me and the hubs without phone calls, texts, or timeouts; but real love and dedication don't usually appear in high heels and suit and tie, at least not for us.
Real love usually comes when son number four has flushed a toy down the toilet for the second time and Daddy has to remove the entire porcelain throne for extrication. This comes usually after an overflow or two, so while Daddy works there, Mommy washes loads of towels downstairs.
Real love happens half way between Gainesville and Jefferson when a gray van and a gold Camry meet to swap kids and head in opposite directions, promising to text updates and pictures from each other's locations.
Real love happens when Dad is at the Region basketball tournament all night with four kids so mom can run a marathon in Birmingham.
Real love is changing a tire in the rain.
Real love is up all night with a sick kid.
Real love is two teenagers (and their hormones/attitudes) in the house and a toddler who destroys everything.
Real love has nothing to do with one day of appreciation and recognition, but 365 days of "good morning," "love you," and "don't forget your lunch is in the fridge."
Real love has nothing to do with the biggest balloon, the biggest proclamation of love, or the biggest mark up on roses, but everything to do with little gestures, little reminders, and little eye rolls, smirks, and secret glances that only HE understands.
Real love usually shows up when romance wears thin, when bank accounts are lowest, when jobs are most stressful, when children are most challenging.
Real love is toilets, car trips, and travel baseball. Real love is two pounds of ground beef and no leftovers. Real love is mismatched socks, fights over Swiss Cake Rolls, and bed time battles.
Real love is that quiet house at 10:30, a fist bump and a kiss, and the channel set to Diesel Brothers.
Hallmark can have February 14th. I'll take real life and real love any day. I'm pretty sure I've found it.
