I have a confession to make. I was going to make it on Saturday, but late Friday night an insidious sore throat wrapped it’s spiky fingers around my neck, and I have been curled up in my bed ever since.

After extra helpings of hot tea, deep sleep, and warm baths, I finally able to sit upright and hold my laptop, so here it is:

I love Valentine’s Day.

I do, I really do. I love the hearts, the pink, the red. I love the cards, the candy, the flowers. I love it all.

You probably already realized this, but I like to pretend that I don’t appear to the be the hopeless romantic that I am.

I like to pass it off as Ava, but I have a feeling that you see right through the charade. So I’m just going to go on and confess now what you already know.

Cause really, someone had to buy her this skirt:

and this sweater:

And someone had to help her cut out these hearts:

And she can’t very well hang these by herself:

And she certainly didn’t acquire all this alone:

And I’m fairly certain she didn’t wrap these up:

I am somewhat embarrassed by these pictures. As ridiculous as it is, I love Valentine’s Day. I really do.

I love the idea of having a special day to express your love with hand-made cards and flowers. And apparently, I’m a tremendous sucker for glitter and hearts.

And before anyone out there starts covering their mouth and yawning, “Hallmark holiday, Hallmark holiday.” Let me just mention that Mr. Geoffrey Chaucer first jotted down the romantic appeal of Valentine’s Day in a love poem in 1382 (a tad bit before the Hallmark rumor started).

“For this was on seynt Volantynys day

When eury bryd comyth there to chese his make.”

[Translation: for this was on Saint Valentine’s Day

When every bird comes there to choose his mate].

Oh, and Shakespeare and company were hitting the boards with allusions to St. Valentine’s Day long before any covered wagons were making their way across the Mississippi to the prairie home of the famed greeting card company. See, literary history. It comes in handy.

As for Chaucer’s poem, it is true for me. Ten Valentine’s Day’s ago, the sweet love of my life arrived at my college dorm with an armful of tulips and an evening chock full of romance. I swooned and the rest is history.

So, while I savored our family breakfast of raspberries and pancakes, enjoyed Ava’s preschool party, and loved Lydia’s Valentine’s birthday, the highlight of my day was coming home.

The dining table was set with for two under a canopy of hearts. There were red tulips flanked by candles, and a card with my name on it. There was French Muscadet and hot loaf of ciabatta…

and this man was in the kitchen:

Yes, those would be snow crab legs. And yes, he did make them along with broccoli rabe with lemon shallot sauce and mashed red potatoes.

He’s pretty much the best.

We seasoned our dinner with laughter, memories, and a heated discussion about whether or not he was nervous on our first date. He spilled an entire bag of licorice snaps on the theatre floor. You decide.

I read his love note and I swooned once again.

As I sat by the crackling fire, listening to intoxicating sound of my husband cleaning up the kitchen, I realized that what I love most of all is my valentine, then:

and now:

Happy Valentine’s Day, Babes! I love you!