The irony has never been lost on me that although I was born on Valentine’s Day, I am not a romantic.
And it’s not just that I’m not a gooey, gushy-in-love romantic. I am not a romantic in the philosophical sense, either – I tend more to classicism and pragmatism. I most often lead with my head, not my heart; I trust my mind, not my gut.
I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve. I don’t cry during movies or even Super Bowl commercials with cute puppies. I usually don’t publicly proclaim my affections, though I’ll often write about them.
And though I’ve known this about myself, it didn’t prevent the guilt I felt as a new mother who didn’t gush outwardly about her love for her children.
I love being affectionate with my children. I hug and kiss and tell them I love them every day, more times than I can count. {Oh, who am I kidding? It’s at least 7.3 times a day, on average.}
But I distinctly remember when my children were younger, as I left work for the day to go pick them up, well-intentioned colleagues {often ones without children} would ask, “Aren’t you so excited?! Don’t you just miss them so much during the day?!” All with big grins and gushy enthusiasm.
And I’d smile and feign similar gushiness and excitement for the sh!tstorm that I knew would likely ensue when I picked up my kids and brought them home. I’d feel guilty that I was not bubbling over with observable maternal love.
But one day, pulling into the daycare parking lot to retrieve my littles, I had an epiphany.
Why would I expect myself to act that way? I’ve never been like that.
As a child, and even now, though I love my parents and my sister dearly, I rarely say it. Though I miss my husband when I travel without him, I don’t weep at our separation or wax melodramatically about the sorrow of the aching distance between us. Sometimes, I even forget to call.
I’m not saying my way is better. Perhaps I should say “I love you” more to those who mean so much to me. But that just hasn’t been my style.
For further evidence, in honor of Valentine’s Day, I will share with you the story of my engagement. My husband and I had already discussed marriage, and, as a rational planning type, I knew that he would be proposing in the near future. I had one rule {because I always have rules}: It couldn’t be in public. Because I DON’T DO PUBLIC DECLARATIONS OF LOVE. In fact, so much of my nervousness about my wedding day wasn’t really about whether the cake would taste perfect or what the flowers would look like, but about the idea of standing in front of hundreds of people and publicly proclaiming my feelings. Who came up with that tradition anyway?
But I digress… the proposal. My then-boyfriend “surprised” me with tickets to the Degas exhibit at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, which is obviously where two European history teachers had once gone for their first date. So I had a feeling this would be the day.
As we walked through the Impressionist wing, my future fiancé suggested we sit on the bench in the middle of the room, to better admire the Monet in front of us. And then, IN THIS PUBLIC PLACE, he got down on one knee, looked up at me lovingly, and—
“YOU ARE NOT DOING THIS HERE.”
I told you I’m not a romantic.
He paused. Clearly that was not the response he’d anticipated. But he gathered his composure, continued with his prepared speech, produced the ring, popped the question, and we got engaged. {Isn’t that a romantic retelling?}
And, to my profound embarrassment, there were indeed other people in the room WHO APPLAUDED.
And now we’ve been married for almost 12 years and clearly it all worked out fine… but I still don’t like to wear my heart on my sleeve.
I am still guarded with my emotions.
Which leads me back to my daycare epiphany. Why would I expect that 31 years of stoicism and avoidance of public gushiness would change just because I was a mother? I love my children – deeply and fiercely and profoundly – but that doesn’t mean I have to proclaim my anguish at our separation during the day followed by a demonstration of giddy excitement when we are reunited. What’s wrong with equanimity?
We feel love and anger and excitement and disappointment differently. We feel marriage and art and Super Bowl commercials differently. Doesn’t it make sense that we would feel motherhood differently?
There’s clearly a difference between Buddy the Elf animatedly singing to his dad in a crowded office, “I love you! I love you! I love you! I looooove yooooouuuu!!”, and the thoughtful letter that simply ends, “p.s. I love you.” But it’s all love.
So yes, this Valentine’s baby is guilty of not being a romantic. But I refuse to feel guilty about it.
p.s. Happy Valentine’s Day!
*****
Today’s post is part of the Finish the Sentence Friday linkup. This week’s prompt is “I was found guilty…” Click the image below to read more!
- A Mindful Approach to New Year’s Resolutions - January 13, 2020
- Just This Next Step - December 16, 2019
- WAIT: A Mindfulness Practice for Waiting in Line - December 9, 2019
