So the husband and I have been married for (counts on fingers… and toes) 19 years this year. Which means we’ve been together for 21 (*wails* I’m so not o-o-old enough for those numbers…).
A few years ago, we just stopped ‘doing’ valentines.
Does that mean that romance is dead?
But as times gone by, it has changed. Different things matter.
When I was 17, it was the most romantic thing in the world that he turned up at my door with a dozen red balloons.
When I was 18, I opened the door to a stranger in a suit and cap instead – the limo driver who was taking us out to dinner and a show (Michael Barrymore, doing stand up. Yes, THAT long ago. Yes, I laughed till I cried – he really was funny once).
When I was 24 we spent the whole valentines weekend walking, talking, cooking, eating… and planning on having a baby in two years time (I was pregnant a month later).
And much as I love and cherish those memories, have they actually been the most romantic of our time together?
No, actually, they haven’t.
Far more precious is the memory of us in bed, him lying widthways with his head on my rounded stomach singing Christmas songs to our unborn child. In August.
Or when I had been in labour for 14 hours, and he noticed that my feet were freezing, rummaged in my labour bag, found socks and put them on my feet – without me saying a word.
Or being at a party, catching his eye across a crowded room and him winking slowly at me.
Or the times he has actively taken my icy-cold feet in bed and wrapped them in his legs to warm them.
Or the countless times he has come home with a beautiful bunch of daisies – just because.
Or the times I found my craved-for raw-onion-and-smattering-of-cheese sandwiches at my elbow – despite him knowing just how bad my onion breath is.
Or the thousands of times he has, without me saying a word, wrapped his arms around me and held me tight and not let me go.
So no. We don’t do Valentines Day.
We have no need.
I love you C. xxx
(this was first posted on LittleStuff in February 2010)