True Love’s Not Always Pretty

True Love’s Not Always Pretty

Three Valentine’s ago, my husband and I discovered that our daughter was footling breech a week before her due date.

We spent that night with bags of frozen peas on my massive belly, elephant walking around the house, playing Beethoven, reclining on an inversion table—all efforts to try to get her to turn back upside down (which she eventually did).

Two Valentine’s ago, we were in the hospital as Miss A battled RSV. In between breathing treatments—during which I was forced to hold my angelic daughter down while she writhed and fought off the nurses—we snuggled on the pull-out bed and watched cooking shows.

In the afternoon, salivating after watching episode after episode of “decadent” desserts, we ordered stale chocolate cake from the cafeteria and washed it down with a miniature carton of milk.

With a Valentine’s Day history such as this, I should’ve been more prepared.

But, for some reason, I was still caught off-guard when—on the eve of the touted February 14th—my daughter came down with a severe case of Montezuma’s revenge and, subsequently, diaper rash.

Instead of sharing a candlelit dinner and sniffing roses, my husband and I found ourselves changing soiled onesies and carrying our screaming child to the sink where we could rinse her off without damaging her inflamed skin.

We repeated this process four times during the night.

In the morning, my eyes were bleary and ringed with mascara. My husband–though devoid of mascara–resembled a scruffy-faced version of me. Our daughter, however, was chipper as a lark—zipping around the house and wanting to eat everything in sight, which only added to her little Montezuma problem.

I sent my husband off to work and then took a deep breath and tightened the belt on my robe. Throughout the morning and afternoon, I settled into a routine that mirrored what we had done throughout the night.

I’m telling you, trying to hold a squirming, slippery toddler over a sink while she screams, “Hot! Hot!” (it was barely lukewarm; she is just very dramatic . . . like me), is right up there with getting your teeth drilled, sans Novocaine.

When my husband returned early at 1, I was still in my bathrobe; my teeth weren’t brushed; my leftover mascara was still smeared; the house was in full disarray, our suitcases still unpacked from our trip away the day before.

I felt self-conscious that I should appear like the mad woman in the attic on one of the world’s most romantic days of the year. But my husband didn’t comment on the house or on my disheveled state. Instead, he just rolled up his sleeves and straightened up the kitchen, unpacked some boxes from our trip, and changed at least half of Miss A’s numerous dirty diapers.

In the evening, I took a long shower, brushed my teeth twice, put on some fresh flannel pajamas (very Valentine’s Day-worthy), lit a candle, and ate some grapes. My husband and I smiled at each other as we made tea in the kitchen and then settled in for the night.

And, once again, I realized that true love’s greatest moments aren’t comprised of once-a-year gourmet meals and exotic vacations; instead, they’re comprised of the day in and day out practice of walking through life’s hardships and triumphs side by side.

Found the great image through The Baker’s Daughter bestselling author, Sarah McCoy.