On Monday, before anyone got up, I decorated the kitchen with a few balloons and streamers, and set out individual plates with valentines and candy (including homemade chocolate molds) for each of my girls.
Breakfast was heart pancakes and pink milk, thanks to a nighttime visit from The Pink Cow, which is a tradition that has lived on since my childhood. Just ask Danielle's friend, Alice.... Sorry, inside joke. But too good of a joke to not share.
I grew up drinking powdered milk, and on one V-day, my little sister, Danielle, took a thermos of Pink Cow (Powdered) Milk to elementary school as part of her lunch. In the lunchroom, one of Danielle's friends, Alice, noticed Danielle's BEAUTIFUL pink milk, and delightedly reached over, picked up Danielle's cup, and took a big slurp without even asking. The slurp may or may not have stayed down. For Krista and me, this was the best thing that had ever happened on a Valentine Day.
Thankfully The Pink 1% Cow graced our house and thermoses this year.
After breakfast we loaded up Sage with all her homemade Valentines, which she had worked on for hours, to make no two alike.
Hypothetically speaking, if a mom were to sneakily change the message inside one of her daughter's Valentines, would that be a retraction of free agency? Even if it weren't a love message? I found something questionable on the valentine Sage made for the one boy in her class that can beat her at math.
Notice the casual placement (by me) of that red heart? Hopefully he doesn't have a two-year-old sibling that likes to pick off heart stickers, because beneath lies the big ol' contraction: 't. Them's fighting words, and not so appropriate for Lovers Day, don't you think? I took the easy road out and covered it up without bothering to use this as a teaching moment. Blame the excessive sugar in my blood.
After half a day of Valentines excitement had passed, Eliza graciously suggested to me that "It would be a big help if you could give me a valentine, Mom." Which I took with a grain of salt and an Aspirin to warn off the impending sugar shock headache that was already forming behind my temples from my balanced breakfast of heart pancakes and oreo truffles.
By lunchtime, even Sugar-Tooth Eliza was ready to forgo sweets for the real four food groups. But by the time dinner rolled around, I was chomping at the bit to make this recipe for the grand finale of Lovers' Day.
Except something went wrong. A lot of somethings, actually. Because my version looked psycho (and much as I'd like to blame my lack of a fancy camera or beautiful cake platter, I know it lacked something else, too...). Especially when, after frosting the cake, I went to get the plates and forks ready, and the top layer started to crack.
As anticipated, I ended up with layers of cake and frosting that looked like pancakes. But I assumed that this labor-intensive dessert wouldn't actually TASTE like triple-sugar-quadruple-butter-pancakes.
(Though that may have been the effect of all that high fructose corn syrup in my bloodstream, inhibiting neurological capacity.)
Mark and I sat down to large slices of our pancake cake with high hopes (no pun intended). We took the first bite with gusto. The second followed a little more cautiously. And by the time the third and fourth loomed, we met the other person's gaze apprehensively (Mark not wanting to offend, and me not wanting to cry, and both of us not wanting to barf). Thanks to eight Valentine's Days and eight years of marriage under our belts, we reached a mental agreement without saying a word, and, simultaneously, we pushed the plates of sugar-bomb-pancakes away and began to laugh.
Then we washed it all down with some Pink Cow Milk, set the timer on the camera, and took twenty pictures of us making disgusted faces at the horrible cake (of which maybe three were actually in focus).
And, all sugar-coating aside, I felt happier than ever that I am married to my best friend.
After breakfast we loaded up Sage with all her homemade Valentines, which she had worked on for hours, to make no two alike.
Hypothetically speaking, if a mom were to sneakily change the message inside one of her daughter's Valentines, would that be a retraction of free agency? Even if it weren't a love message? I found something questionable on the valentine Sage made for the one boy in her class that can beat her at math.
Notice the casual placement (by me) of that red heart? Hopefully he doesn't have a two-year-old sibling that likes to pick off heart stickers, because beneath lies the big ol' contraction: 't. Them's fighting words, and not so appropriate for Lovers Day, don't you think? I took the easy road out and covered it up without bothering to use this as a teaching moment. Blame the excessive sugar in my blood.
After half a day of Valentines excitement had passed, Eliza graciously suggested to me that "It would be a big help if you could give me a valentine, Mom." Which I took with a grain of salt and an Aspirin to warn off the impending sugar shock headache that was already forming behind my temples from my balanced breakfast of heart pancakes and oreo truffles.
By lunchtime, even Sugar-Tooth Eliza was ready to forgo sweets for the real four food groups. But by the time dinner rolled around, I was chomping at the bit to make this recipe for the grand finale of Lovers' Day.
Except something went wrong. A lot of somethings, actually. Because my version looked psycho (and much as I'd like to blame my lack of a fancy camera or beautiful cake platter, I know it lacked something else, too...). Especially when, after frosting the cake, I went to get the plates and forks ready, and the top layer started to crack.
As anticipated, I ended up with layers of cake and frosting that looked like pancakes. But I assumed that this labor-intensive dessert wouldn't actually TASTE like triple-sugar-quadruple-butter-pancakes.
(Though that may have been the effect of all that high fructose corn syrup in my bloodstream, inhibiting neurological capacity.)
Mark and I sat down to large slices of our pancake cake with high hopes (no pun intended). We took the first bite with gusto. The second followed a little more cautiously. And by the time the third and fourth loomed, we met the other person's gaze apprehensively (Mark not wanting to offend, and me not wanting to cry, and both of us not wanting to barf). Thanks to eight Valentine's Days and eight years of marriage under our belts, we reached a mental agreement without saying a word, and, simultaneously, we pushed the plates of sugar-bomb-pancakes away and began to laugh.
Then we washed it all down with some Pink Cow Milk, set the timer on the camera, and took twenty pictures of us making disgusted faces at the horrible cake (of which maybe three were actually in focus).
And, all sugar-coating aside, I felt happier than ever that I am married to my best friend.
