I hate Valentine's Day. My animosity began in my pre-pubescent years and had little to do with unrequited love or hatred of materialism.
Those I would learn about and embrace later in life.
It was born of the selfish, peeved off realization this holiday would, for the rest of my life, steal thunder from my birthday on the twentieth.
I'm hopeful some of the cupcake myths of motherhood will come true. This holiday was no exception. Maybe, with kids, I could see things in a fresh light. Learn to love the day of love again.
Today, my table was covered with stickers, crayons, perforated cartoon character cards. The floor was a teeming mass of scraps I (not them) would have to clean up despite a raging head cold. My toddler banged accompaniment on the stove with a stainless steel measuring cup, while I tried unsuccessfully not to swear at the name tags refusing to stick to the gifts I'd planned months ago.
I still hate this holiday.
Those mothers lie.
Or their drugs are way better than mine.