There were 26 kids in my fifth-grade class at Rawson Elementary, and the valentine protocol was that everyone was supposed to get a valentine for everyone else.
That way no one would feel left out. Everyone would feel equally liked. That was how it was supposed to be, anyway. But of course it didn’t always work out that way. I guess some parents
apparently didn’t get the memo, or maybe some kids just didn’t want to sign a bunch of cards.
There was a big red-and-white crepe-paper-decorated box on the teacher’s desk, and on Feb. 14 (if, God willing, Valentine’s Day landed on a weekday, and mostly it seemed it did), when you walked through the classroom door, you dropped your cards in the slot and sat down.
You waited for the teacher to announce who would be the lucky kid who would get to distribute the valentines to the rest of us sitting and waiting and hoping that we would get a huge pile. The size of the mound would prove your popularity.
Everyone looked at everyone’s desk as the stacks of cards grew.
It’s time for an embarrassing confession. I was so afraid (at 10) that I wouldn’t get any valentines, I sent a few to myself. As it turned out, I didn’t have to have done that. It was probably a year where the parents remembered, and the kids all willingly signed.
Full disclosure: I just wanted to look more popular than Emily Schuman.
Looking back at those insecure years, I blush realizing I was probably the only one looking and comparing amounts that indicated proof. I forgive my innocent little (well actually, I was never little) self and actually think about how clever I was. (Sad, but clever.)
I loved Valentine’s Day then, and I still love it now.
There were a few in-between years where I had to, let us say, “educate” my husband on the value of romance vs. practicality. He was a pragmatic guy, and when we first got married, our biggest fight was over my utter shock and disappointment that he hadn’t bought the requisite heart-shaped chocolate box with the phony ribbon and/or the dozen red roses. He was baffled. The argument went something like this:
Me (maybe with gritted teeth): It’s Valentine’s Day again.
Him: Nance, once more, it’s a made-up holiday. I’m not going to be manipulated by Hallmark or any other corporation who wants me to do something that has nothing to do with love or generosity. If you want chocolates or roses, go buy them.
I’m not sure why he’s still alive today, but apparently I have the patience of a saint, because each year –– and I’m talking quite a few years –– I had to gently explain that it wasn’t chocolates or roses I wanted. That what I wanted was for him to allow himself to be manipulated and to go buy the f______ roses and the stupid candy. That my needy little 10-year-old inner child was still counting her valentines. And that until she got her validation and attention (translation: love), she would probably continue to be needy, and the condition might even get worse.
We came to a perfect compromise. Since I really didn’t need the flowers or the sweets, but I still wanted the acknowledgement, how about writing something?
And I have to say, it was a brilliant compromise. I found out he’s a fabulous writer, and I finally filled that empty space in my soul.
These days, I have a huge pile of beautiful, funny, homemade original cards. How big is the pile, you ask?
Who’s counting?