Valentine's Day was always a special day in my house when I was a child, but probably for different reasons than most of my friends.
At school, I would hear other children talk about how their dad got their mom a box of candy or their mommy had a new nightgown peeking out from under her robe that morning. At my house, where it was just me and my mom, I got all of the Valentine attention from a single mother whose love of Hallmark was second only to her love of her only child. My mom used to send balloon bouquets to school on Valentine's Day, and I always had a huge card and a ton of candy, and usually a stuffed animal or 20 -- my mom was a firm believer in the Texas "go big or don't bother" philosophy when it came to holidays.
Valentine's Day was one of the handful of times each year that we went out to dinner -- usually to Red Lobster, because my mom loved seafood, but hated the smell of fish cooking in our kitchen.
In short, I grew up with a healthy appreciation for all things gooey. My mother imparted her love of sappy movies and Hallmark holidays, and raised a daughter all by herself who grew up to be an odd combination of romantic and independent. I loved the idea of having a Valentine as the February days flipped closer to the fourteenth each year, and no matter who else I had a card for on that day, I never forgot to grab one for mom. A card, and a box of Russell Stover chocolates, because those and Pangburn's Millionaires were her favorites, but I never could find the Millionaires after Christmas.
This year was the first year I didn't need one. My mom went into the hospital for the last time on February 4 last year, and she passed away on March 11. I stood in front of the greeting card display at Target yesterday, studying the selection and searching for the perfect one for my oldest daughter, and the woman next to me said "do you see the ones for your mom? I have to send my mother one this year."
It was an innocent comment directed at a complete stranger, and I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat and smiled, pointing to the one I would have picked for my mother and wanting more than I wanted air in my lungs at that moment to have reason to pick it up.
"There," I said. "That one's pretty."
I sat down at my computer today to write an article about why growing up in a home where parents are affectionate can be good for children. Sometimes what I sit down to write and what actually shows up on the page are two different things. So, fellow mommy: come in. Sit down. Let me get you a glass of wine (it's not that early) and a box of tissues (or chocolates), and let's talk about how to teach our babies what love is.
Researching this loving marriage = happy children idea, I came across some studies that said married parents produce more stable, higher-achieving children, though no one knows whether it's more to do with marriage or education level. Other research indicates that there's no material difference between children raised in nuclear families and those of us who grow up in "non-traditional" homes. I expected no different, really. If there's one thing I've learned from more years of reporting than I care to admit to, it's that there's a study out there somewhere to back up almost anything one wants to say.
I asked other Richmond mommies for opinions, and I got a lot of the same sort of thing I would tell someone who asked me: it's good for kids to know that you're important to each other (well, that -- and a lot of comments about love being more than "Hallmark holidays").
"We laugh with each other," Jennifer Lewis of Midlothian, who has six children ranging in age from infancy to teen, said. "We are goofy and silly. We tell each other, more than once a day: I love you. Even when we don't agree, we always end up putting a smile on each other's faces. I think it's great for the kids to know love and what it means to share your life with someone. They are so full of love and happiness, and I think it comes from them seeing it every day. It must work -- we do have six kids!"
As a mom, I'm on board with that. My children know I love them more than life itself, but they also respect that mommy and daddy need their mommy and daddy time.
As a child of a single mother, and a granddaughter and neice of some of the most dysfunctional marriages ever, though, my formative years were spent surrounded by shining examples of how a woman could do everything on her own and why some people would be better off single.
Yet I've been very happily married for eleven years, to a man I dated for six before that. Our kids think nothing of seeing mommy and daddy hug and kiss and hold hands, because that's normal for them. We love Valentine's Day, and yes, we are those cheesy married people who still try to surprise each other: I have a gift stashed in the closet waiting for him to get home, and he ordered me roses that got here a day early and came with a poem he composed for me himself. After 17 years. I think I'll keep him.
But all of those studies that say a loving set of biological parents are paramount for good child development ... none of them could explain me. According to the research, I was "at high risk" for delivering a child before I turned 20 (my oldest was born when I was 26), dropping out of high school (I was the first person in my family to earn a college degree, and my mom was ridiculously proud of that), and living in poverty (I live in the sort of house my mom and I used to drive around and stare at in awe at Christmastime, and every once in a while I catch myself being impressed by it, even still).
So where were they wrong, I wondered, staring at my blinking cursor and my notes on how loving parents are important for kids. I'm not that special -- why do I not fit the research? How on Earth have I managed to blunder into this life I have? Blessed? Definitely. Lucky? You're damned straight.
But perhaps the best answer I have, after way more introspection than I intended when I sat down here today, is that I did grow up in a home where love was modeled as the thing to be prized above all else. My mom was far from perfect, and she had a temper befitting her Apache heritage, but she loved me. Over and over in the past eleven months, I've heard from other people that that's what they remember most about her.
I may not have had many good role models for loving marriages (my great aunts and uncles actually did have amazing long and happy marriages, but I saw them once a year, if that) when I was a child, but I learned, possibly better than some, what it means to love someone else more than you love yourself. I practice it every single day with my babies and my husband, and pray I did it well every night as I close my eyes.
Whether you buy into "Hallmark holidays" or not, the truth is that February 14 is just another day of the year for those who are fortunate enough to be surrounded by love all the time. But it gives us the chance to make sure important things don't go unsaid.
So, fellow mommy, say the words -- be it because of the date on the calendar or the fact that the sun came up and you opened your eyes this morning. Whether you have a sweetheart or a sweet pea or both, tell them they're loved. That's the best way to make sure your babies grow up knowing what it means.
I bought my mom that card, after all -- old habits die hard, and all that. And I like to think that somewhere, she's diving into a box of Russell Stover and smiling.
If you enjoyed this article, please click the "Like" button to the left, and click here for more articles from the author about parenting in the 21st century. I make no assumptions about having all the answers, but I do have smart friends and a love for sharing and hearing ideas on raising smart, happy kids.
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