A year ago, I shared that I never got flowers for Valentine’s Day. It’s a great post about love languages and understanding that not everyone expresses their love the same way.
For the record, I’m still OK with the fact that I don’t get flowers. My husband does the dishes and cooks breakfast. He also cleans out the cat litter box and cleans the toilets. I’m loved.
(Today marks the 15th anniversary of our first date. Squeee!!!)
I actually did get flowers this year.
Last October, when I was scheduled for knee surgery, I was blessed to have more than one family member to call on for help. I got to choose who took me to the day surgery center and who would pick up the kids after school.
It was an easy choice.
My mommy took me to the hospital and held my hand. My husband got kid duty.
When my mom brought me home, my husband and kids were there at the curb, ready to help me into the house and onto the couch.
Each son was holding a bouquet of flowers for me.
As my husband was quick to point out, technically the flowers were from the kids and NOT from him. That means his flower-free streak is still intact. But I know he’s the one who drove them to the grocery store and paid for the flowers they picked out.
The kids even told me it was his idea.
They weren’t roses.
Since each boy was allowed to pick out his own flowers to give me, their picks were a little less traditional.
My older son went with hot pink. Lots and lots of pink. In his mind, quantity was clearly more important than quality.
My younger son took a different path. He gave me a plant. It was in full bloom (with pink flowers) at the time, but it was clearly in a pot with dirt. He said he didn’t want my flowers to ever die.
I’ll take it.
I’m not a big flower person. But I’m not a fool. I snapped photos of those flowers and posted them on Facebook. Even in my Vicodin haze, I was still lucid enough to brag on my boys.
Speaking of which:
Daisies are white
Roses are pink
I’m trading my flowers
for a clean kitchen sink.
Roses smell sweet,
but carnations stink.