Taking this picture on Valentine's Day was just about the last thing I wanted to do at that moment. But I knew it wouldn't be long before I could look at the picture and smile...and be glad that I forced myself to take it.Valentine's Day is not especially important to me. I think making valentines with children is fun and I can't complain about an excuse to eat chocolate, but I don't find anything inherently romantic about the day. My wonderful husband, however, never fails to send me flowers, usually red roses. I would rather have tulips on some random day instead (or, even better, take the money and go shopping), but I appreciate how thoughtful and sweet Greg's gesture is each year. So I haven't ever said anything but a gracious and sincere thank you. Until this year.
It was around 4 o'clock in the afternoon (of a very LONG afternoon--the kind of afternoon that makes me fantasize about daycare) when I heard the knock at the door. David rushed to the window, shouting "Mail-koo!! Mail-koo!!" "Mail-koo" is David's word for a mail truck or delivery truck. He learned at Christmastime that mail trucks bring big boxes full of exciting things. (When other children at preschool were chattering about Santa, David was talking about mail trucks. Who cares about some silly old fat guy flying around with a bunch of reindeer? It's all about the UPS man!) So on this particular afternoon, he was as excited as can be about this "mail-koo." I happened to be nursing Mary at the time, and I hoped to simply ignore the "mail-koo." But the person kept knocking, and by this time David was clamoring to get the door open himself. That's when I remembered it was Valentine's Day--it wasn't a mail truck, it was a florist's delivery truck. My annual flowers.
Mary's meal was abruptly interrupted as I plowed through the toys on the floor in a race to reach the front door before David successfully unlocked it. I opened the door and accepted a large arrangement of roses from a scruffy, tired man. "Happy Valentine's Day," he muttered. And I felt ridiculous (even embarrassed) standing there at the door, in a pile of legos and matchbox cars, wearing sweats, my hair half falling out of a ponytail, a screaming baby in one arm, flowers in the other arm, as I used my leg to keep my overly enthusiastic 2-year-old from escaping out the front door for a better view of the "mail-koo."
"Yay!!!" David cheered, with his arms in the air, when he saw the flowers. "Flower! Flower! Flower!" The flowers were wrapped in a plastic and cardboard contraption (that smelled of stale cigarette smoke), and David insisted we open it immediately. To Mary's dismay, I couldn't get the flowers out with one hand, so I had to set her down. I tore off the plastic, pried the vase out of the cardboard, and picked up my hysterical baby. "Yay!!! Two flowers!! Two flowers, Mom!" Actually, there were eight--eight beautiful, perfect red roses. I scanned the house for a place to put them. Hmmm. I could put them on the kitchen counter with the bread crumbs, open peanut butter, breakfast dishes, junk mail, and the business section of The New York Times strung about. Or I could put them on the table with more crumbs, spilled milk, a half-eaten apple, coloring books, broken crayons, and the rest of the newspaper. I settled on the table and pushed aside the newspaper with my elbow to create a few inches of space for the vase. The flowers were beautiful, which had the stunning (and depressing) effect of making my house look even messier. (Note to self. Actually note to anyone who might ever send me flowers. Please don't send me flowers unless my house is clean. Even if you could just give me 2 minutes notice, so I can at least wipe off the dining room table.)
David climbed right up on a chair to admire the flowers. He was overflowing with excitement. "Flower, Mom! Flower, Mom! Flower, Mom!" "Yes, I see the flowers. Aren't they pretty?" "Flower, Mom! Flower, Mom! Flower, Mom!" I left David to enjoy the flowers (at least someone was) and finished feeding Mary (finally!). When I returned a few minutes later, the poking had begun. With every "Flower, Mom!" David would poke one of the roses. At first I scolded him, but David was just so excited about the flowers--he needed to have physical contact with them. And I didn't have the energy to fight him. Besides, I was annoyed that Greg had sent me one more responsibility. I felt a responsibility to protect the flowers, but keeping David and Mary alive and safe was all the responsibility I could handle that afternoon. Sorry, flowers.
This is when I had the foresight to take a picture. I could see that the end was near for the flowers. And even though I was annoyed about the additional chaos the flowers had brought to my day and had no positive feelings towards them at that moment, I could recognize some humor and irony in the situation. So I gritted my teeth and prepared myself for the struggle of getting David to pose for a picture. I couldn't bring myself to record for all posterity the messiness of my house that day, so I put the flowers and kids on the one uncluttered spot I could find. David was thrilled to pose with the flowers. He was so proud! He was even more excited to hold his baby sister. I am glad I took the picture. More than anything, I love remembering how excited David was. He has such enthusiasm for life.
Right after I took this picture, David wrestled Mary to the floor in a headlock, knocking the flowers over, and soaking the carpet with water.
When Greg came home, I managed a very forced and weak thank you. Then I told Greg that he was in charge of David and the flowers. He looked at me confused. David dragged him into the dining room, "Flower, Dad! Flower, Dad!" Five minutes later, after countless "No, David!"s, a dozen lost petals, and three tippings of the vase, Greg returned from the dining room shell-shocked. "Alisa, I hope this doesn't hurt your feelings, but I'm not going to send you flowers again for a while." "Please!"
