Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!

I was just thinking last night as I perused the card section of the grocery store and selected eight (yes, eight) valentine’s cards, four colorful potted plants, and two 24-count plastic bags of candy valentines (which I later filled out and hotglued together for my children’s classmates) that the romantic aspect of this particular holiday is somewhat diminished for me these past few years. And I’m thinking the problem is that I’m a mom.

Most — not all — men feel they have managed a coup when they (a) remember that February 14 is a holiday that theoretically requires some action on their part and (b) show up with anything — including the rubber chicken they substituted when they discovered the store had sold out of actual flowers — in hand. And if they purchase a card that does not involve raunchy comments about female anatomy, they’re in great shape till the next Valentine’s Day — or at least till the next anniversary. I saw several of these valentine-savvy men tonight as I waited in line to buy a drink at the local supermarket. (You can recognize them by the furtive glances at their watches and the plastic-wrapped, luridly colored roses.)

A mother’s responsibility? Purchase, label, and distribute trinkets and/or live greenery to all the people capable of creating future psychoanalysis bills for one’s children. And relatives, of course. Who I guess fall into that category, come to think of it.

Now, I can’t complain — my own sweet spouse arrived last night with a lovely, anatomy-free card and a beautiful bouquet of the same flowers that were in my wedding bouquet. Had he not had a meeting in Temple until ten last night, I’m sure he would have joined me in the hot-glue-a-thon.  And it’s not like I’m totally on top of things (exhibit a: my blog record for the past, oh, three months or so).

But you know what the worst of it is? Valentine’s may have come and gone, but the Easter stuff is already in the stores.

Calgon, take me away…