For once, the universe worked out in my favor on the inexplicably placed February holiday, which fell on a Friday this year. It was a beautiful day, filled with unseasonable warmth, complete health, and ease due to my son being in daycare. We scheduled a morning couple’s massage, followed by lunch at one of our favorite places, beating out the inevitable holiday crowds. We held hands and stared into each others’ eyes like the love-struck kids we once were, and for a few hours, all was right with the universe.
This is the post I wish I could write. But instead, my Valentine’s Day experience was denied. My son came down with a nasty cold, which manifested into a double ear infection. A few days later, I too succumbed, only to find out that I had contracted my first ever strep infection. Yay. Oh, and another stupid winter storm ruined whatever hope we had of going out by blasting through the remaining vacation time I had saved up for the occasion.
Even if I hadn’t been sick, my plans were being cancelled around me. The spa called the day before the storm, asking us to move our time, knowing that the school’s would be closed and there would be no way for them to make our early appointment. Then, with the storm sucking up the last of my time, there too went my ability to have a lovely quiet lunch on one of the busiest restaurant days of the year.
I had hoped to go to dinner, but since we couldn’t get a sitter on such short notice, I made reservations for the three of us to go together to another restaurant. Not quite as romantic, but it was better than nothing. Then, after finally realizing I needed to see a doctor, the urgent care center gave me a diagnosis of “highly contagious” and that was the end of that.
Our Valentine’s Days have been ruined before. One year, we had an ice storm descend on us, making it impossible to have flowers delivered, or go to the lovely dinner we had our hearts set on. Last year, my son was about 8 days old, and having been sent home from the hospital only a few days before, we were still in that war zone mentality, and barely knew what day it was. I think it wasn’t until dinner time that we realized what day it was, shrugged and went back to panicking about the tiny life form we were now responsible for not killing.
But all that stuff aside, this year kind of hurts a bit more. I had made plans for our first “real” post-baby holiday to be special, a time just for us, and at every turn we were thwarted by circumstances beyond our control. I am hoping to make up the time, but after calling the spa to reschedule, they don’t have anything for the two of us to go together for nearly a month. And, sure, we can always go back to our restaurant, but the idea of a week-day lunch break is something that will also have to wait until I can bank more vacation time, which will take a few more weeks too. All told, it’s just a crappy situation all around, and while the reminder that we both love each other is only an “I love you” away, the commitment of time to each other, which is harder to find now that our little guy has taken up all of free time, is the thing I’m really missing out on.