Some valentines prove better than others

In third grade Kirby Hanson gave me a valentine with a picture of a fuzzy lamb that said, “I love ewe.”

He’d carefully printed, “I really do,” and surrounded his name with X’s and O’s. My heart pounded; my cheeks reddened. I sat at my desk undone by true love.

Then I found out he’d given the same card to five other girls.

Valentine’s Day hasn’t been the same since.

In high school, I dated a guy who conveniently dumped me right before Valentine’s Day. I got back together with him only to be dumped the week before Christmas.

Guess he had gift-avoidance issues.

On our first Valentine’s Day as a married couple, my husband came home with a heart-shaped balloon. No card. I cried.

He still gets a little anxious each February.

And no wonder. I watched unsold Christmas candy being pulled from the shelves at the grocery store, only to be replaced by bags of valentine candy.

All the heart-shaped boxes and pink and red floral displays lead to lots of ladies with high expectations around Feb. 14.

After that shaky start, Derek has never forgotten to present me with a card and usually chocolates or flowers, too. No more balloons.

As I slip into bed after a late-night writing session, his muffled snores fill the room. He scoots over and embraces me as he’s done night after night for 20 years.

I remember how he held me just like this the night my dad died. I knew I could survive the loss with him beside me.

I remember the night we came home from the hospital where our newborn son lay critically ill. I’d held it together for two days, but the empty cradle at the foot of our bed was too much.

Derek lay down with me and held me. His tears mingled with mine, and I knew no matter what we had to face, we would face it together.

I like a mushy card.

I adore See’s chocolates.

But, the faithful love of the man emitting earth-shaking snores on the pillow next to mine is the best valentine of all.