Monday – You’re a Lemon, Valentine
Feb. 14th, 2011 10:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
.
No one around my house is good at holidays, or anything that requires planning ahead, really. We are good at muddling through at the last moment. We excel at that, and do it better than anyone eles. I am certain that the secret to happiness is setting really low standards, and taking it with a grain of salf when you fail to meet even those.
I would say that today’s half-ass Valentine’s Day was pretty much typical for us, except for the part about the school nurse calling to say Sweet Pea had a fever. Since this is his first year in school, I won’t know until next year if that kind of thing is going to be a new tradition or not.
“He’s at 99 now, and we usually send them home at 100.” the nurse said at 2:15 when she called the first time, “Do you want to come get him, or do you want to see if he can last through his party?” Sweet Pea has a fever off and on this weekend, but he was looking forward to the Valentine’s Day party in his Kindergarten class, so I sent him to school with high hopes that he was on the mend. No such luck. I told the nurse to see if he could make it through the party.
He did. Mostly. When she called back a little before 3:30 as the class party was winding down, his fever had hit 100 degrees. I tried to reach Jeff, but he didn’t pick up the land line, which is the only phone remotely loud enough to wake him. I finished up what I was working on and left work to get my son. I only work 15 miles from his school, but none of those are highway miles. It is 15 miles of stoplights, turns, bends, stop signs, school zones, and lots of other cars who are never in as big of a hurry as I am. Since one of the roads I have to take is in the process of be being repaved, those 15 miles took an about an hour to travel. He would have made it home sooner if he had taken the bus, but since his father would have been asleep that was not an option (on Mondays he usually goes to the YMCA Aftercare program in the school cafeteria).
When I pulled into the driveway, though, Jeff’s pickup truck was gone. Interesting. He was awake. If I had called his cell, I might have had to ask my boss for permission to leave work.
“I wonder where Daddy is?” I asked.
“Maybe he’s at work,” Sweet Pea suggested.
“Not this early. He should still be asleep.”
“Are you going to call him on his cell phone?”
“Yup.”
After getting Sweet Pea in the house and setting him to work opening and exploring all of his Valentine’s treats and treasures, I called my husband.
“Hi, there!” he said.
“Hi! Where you at?”
“Heading home. I’m almost there. Where are you at?”
“Home. Our son’s fever came back they asked me to come pick him up.”
“Uh, oh. I’m pulling into the neighborhood right now. I guess I should have been home to answer the phone.”
“Where are you this time of day, anyway? I thought you’d be asleep.”
“Getting your Valentine’s present.”
“Oh. Well. See you in a few.”
I had left two boxes of chocolate covered cherries where he could find them that morning, and called it good. I had a card, too, that I’d taken to work with me, but I hadn’t had time to sign it.
When Jeff got home, he pulled Sweet Pea into the back bedroom. I went out to my car to get the unsigned cards for both of my guys. When I walked back to the house, Sweet Pea was peering through the partially opened front door.
“Here’s a card!” he said, holding it toward me and then walking away without bothering to see if I liked it. I read what Jeff had picked out for him to give me; it was the sort of card a grown man gives his mom, signed in Sweet Pea’s childish signature.
“Come back here and let me kiss you,” I told him, and he obliged.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“Now come over here and sign a card for Daddy,” I told him. “You, go away and don’t peak,” I told Jeff. He walked out in the garage to smoke a cigarette.
“Ooooh, it has an owl on it!” Sweet Pea said. Happy Valentine’s Day Daddy! Owl always love you! it read. The owl had googly eyes. Sweet Pea was impressed, and stuck around after handing it to his father to see if the owl would impress Jeff, as well. It did. Jeff picked him up to give him a hug and a kiss when he thanked him.
“Now, let’s go outside and show Mommy her presents,” he said.
“Okay,” Sweet Pea agreed, “Where are they?”
“In the back of my truck. Do you want to walk or do you want me to carry you?”
“Carry me, because I’m in my socks.” When Sweet Pea comes inside, his shoes come off within seconds. Sometimes his socks do, too. My mother, who he never met, was the same way. Funny how something like a distain for footwear can come be carried in our DNA.
We walked outside to look in the back of Jeff’s truck. Two baby trees, were there. My baby trees. An orange tree (Satsuma) and a lemon tree (some sort of Chinese hybrid). I’ve never asked for any sort of citrus tree, but Jeff is big on surprises.
“Cute. Will they grow here? Will they bear fruit?”
He told me that he bought them at a local nursery that specializes in things that will thrive in our climate. These trees were grown locally from local parents, and the nursery swore they would be happy in my back yard, and give me oranges and lemons when they got a little bigger. The lemon tree can be grown in a giant flower pot. The Satsuma tree can go in the ground.
The baby trees were not interesting to Sweet Pea, but he liked hanging out in the back of his father’s truck with them and sliding around in his socks. The baby citrus trees were interesting to me in that they were yet another two items to add to the list of quirky gifts I’ve gotten from my husband. A more paranoid woman might ponder the question, is he trying to tell me I’m a lemon? But I’m not that paranoid, and Jeff’s not that into symbolism. He’s trying to surprise me by giving me something unexpected. And really, what woman expects a lemon tree for Valentine’s Day? Color me surprised, and a little amused.
Back in the house, I told Jeff I needed a few minutes and he needed to give me some privacy. I signed the card I got for him, and drew a little cartoon of me wearing cherub wings and nothing more in it. Back when we first started dating, he once made a comment about me looking “very cherubic.” Having always despised cherubs as long as I could remember, I look umbrage. Then I looked in the mirror and realized he was right. After that, I started sending him little cartoons of myself as a sexy little grown up cherub with wings and signing them, “With Love, Your Cherub.” One of these days after we are both dead, our son will discover this stash of cartoons and be a little shocked. The cherubs aren’t X rated, but they are a definitely R rated. Now that we have been together so long, Jeff only gets a cherub on Valentine’s Day and his birthday. The cherub has grown plumper in real life and in the cartoons, but he says he doesn’t mind.
“Oh, I was wondering if I was going to get a cherub this year,” he said when he opened the card. He smiled. He enjoys his cherubs.
“Sorry if all the pencil lines aren’t erased. Your son came over and wanted to see what I was doing while I was trying to finish her up.”
“She’s fine. I like her.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said, and leaned against him for a hug.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, and put his arms around me. “We really aren’t very good at all this, are we?”
“What, signing the cards at the last minute while the other one is facing the other direction? That’s just us. If everything was perfect and planned in advance, that would be weird. This is how we roll.”
“You’re right,” he said, and gave me a squeeze.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
No one around my house is good at holidays, or anything that requires planning ahead, really. We are good at muddling through at the last moment. We excel at that, and do it better than anyone eles. I am certain that the secret to happiness is setting really low standards, and taking it with a grain of salf when you fail to meet even those.
I would say that today’s half-ass Valentine’s Day was pretty much typical for us, except for the part about the school nurse calling to say Sweet Pea had a fever. Since this is his first year in school, I won’t know until next year if that kind of thing is going to be a new tradition or not.
“He’s at 99 now, and we usually send them home at 100.” the nurse said at 2:15 when she called the first time, “Do you want to come get him, or do you want to see if he can last through his party?” Sweet Pea has a fever off and on this weekend, but he was looking forward to the Valentine’s Day party in his Kindergarten class, so I sent him to school with high hopes that he was on the mend. No such luck. I told the nurse to see if he could make it through the party.
He did. Mostly. When she called back a little before 3:30 as the class party was winding down, his fever had hit 100 degrees. I tried to reach Jeff, but he didn’t pick up the land line, which is the only phone remotely loud enough to wake him. I finished up what I was working on and left work to get my son. I only work 15 miles from his school, but none of those are highway miles. It is 15 miles of stoplights, turns, bends, stop signs, school zones, and lots of other cars who are never in as big of a hurry as I am. Since one of the roads I have to take is in the process of be being repaved, those 15 miles took an about an hour to travel. He would have made it home sooner if he had taken the bus, but since his father would have been asleep that was not an option (on Mondays he usually goes to the YMCA Aftercare program in the school cafeteria).
When I pulled into the driveway, though, Jeff’s pickup truck was gone. Interesting. He was awake. If I had called his cell, I might have had to ask my boss for permission to leave work.
“I wonder where Daddy is?” I asked.
“Maybe he’s at work,” Sweet Pea suggested.
“Not this early. He should still be asleep.”
“Are you going to call him on his cell phone?”
“Yup.”
After getting Sweet Pea in the house and setting him to work opening and exploring all of his Valentine’s treats and treasures, I called my husband.
“Hi, there!” he said.
“Hi! Where you at?”
“Heading home. I’m almost there. Where are you at?”
“Home. Our son’s fever came back they asked me to come pick him up.”
“Uh, oh. I’m pulling into the neighborhood right now. I guess I should have been home to answer the phone.”
“Where are you this time of day, anyway? I thought you’d be asleep.”
“Getting your Valentine’s present.”
“Oh. Well. See you in a few.”
I had left two boxes of chocolate covered cherries where he could find them that morning, and called it good. I had a card, too, that I’d taken to work with me, but I hadn’t had time to sign it.
When Jeff got home, he pulled Sweet Pea into the back bedroom. I went out to my car to get the unsigned cards for both of my guys. When I walked back to the house, Sweet Pea was peering through the partially opened front door.
“Here’s a card!” he said, holding it toward me and then walking away without bothering to see if I liked it. I read what Jeff had picked out for him to give me; it was the sort of card a grown man gives his mom, signed in Sweet Pea’s childish signature.
“Come back here and let me kiss you,” I told him, and he obliged.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“Now come over here and sign a card for Daddy,” I told him. “You, go away and don’t peak,” I told Jeff. He walked out in the garage to smoke a cigarette.
“Ooooh, it has an owl on it!” Sweet Pea said. Happy Valentine’s Day Daddy! Owl always love you! it read. The owl had googly eyes. Sweet Pea was impressed, and stuck around after handing it to his father to see if the owl would impress Jeff, as well. It did. Jeff picked him up to give him a hug and a kiss when he thanked him.
“Now, let’s go outside and show Mommy her presents,” he said.
“Okay,” Sweet Pea agreed, “Where are they?”
“In the back of my truck. Do you want to walk or do you want me to carry you?”
“Carry me, because I’m in my socks.” When Sweet Pea comes inside, his shoes come off within seconds. Sometimes his socks do, too. My mother, who he never met, was the same way. Funny how something like a distain for footwear can come be carried in our DNA.
We walked outside to look in the back of Jeff’s truck. Two baby trees, were there. My baby trees. An orange tree (Satsuma) and a lemon tree (some sort of Chinese hybrid). I’ve never asked for any sort of citrus tree, but Jeff is big on surprises.
“Cute. Will they grow here? Will they bear fruit?”
He told me that he bought them at a local nursery that specializes in things that will thrive in our climate. These trees were grown locally from local parents, and the nursery swore they would be happy in my back yard, and give me oranges and lemons when they got a little bigger. The lemon tree can be grown in a giant flower pot. The Satsuma tree can go in the ground.
The baby trees were not interesting to Sweet Pea, but he liked hanging out in the back of his father’s truck with them and sliding around in his socks. The baby citrus trees were interesting to me in that they were yet another two items to add to the list of quirky gifts I’ve gotten from my husband. A more paranoid woman might ponder the question, is he trying to tell me I’m a lemon? But I’m not that paranoid, and Jeff’s not that into symbolism. He’s trying to surprise me by giving me something unexpected. And really, what woman expects a lemon tree for Valentine’s Day? Color me surprised, and a little amused.
Back in the house, I told Jeff I needed a few minutes and he needed to give me some privacy. I signed the card I got for him, and drew a little cartoon of me wearing cherub wings and nothing more in it. Back when we first started dating, he once made a comment about me looking “very cherubic.” Having always despised cherubs as long as I could remember, I look umbrage. Then I looked in the mirror and realized he was right. After that, I started sending him little cartoons of myself as a sexy little grown up cherub with wings and signing them, “With Love, Your Cherub.” One of these days after we are both dead, our son will discover this stash of cartoons and be a little shocked. The cherubs aren’t X rated, but they are a definitely R rated. Now that we have been together so long, Jeff only gets a cherub on Valentine’s Day and his birthday. The cherub has grown plumper in real life and in the cartoons, but he says he doesn’t mind.
“Oh, I was wondering if I was going to get a cherub this year,” he said when he opened the card. He smiled. He enjoys his cherubs.
“Sorry if all the pencil lines aren’t erased. Your son came over and wanted to see what I was doing while I was trying to finish her up.”
“She’s fine. I like her.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said, and leaned against him for a hug.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, and put his arms around me. “We really aren’t very good at all this, are we?”
“What, signing the cards at the last minute while the other one is facing the other direction? That’s just us. If everything was perfect and planned in advance, that would be weird. This is how we roll.”
“You’re right,” he said, and gave me a squeeze.
