You and Me Could Write a Bad Romance

I’m starting a new job Monday and am spending the last couple days of freedom getting organized. I got my hair done, perked up my wardrobe, had lunch with an old friend, tried a new yoga class near my new office. Wait sorry, that’s just my fantasy life. No, my fantasies don’t involve a creep named Mr. Gray and a padded torture sex room. I did get a lovely Valentine yesterday though so I am not complaining.

My real day consisted of a blizzard, no school and burnt chocolate chip pancakes. “Mom, you are the pancake murderer. I am working on a freelance project and won’t have any time to finish after Monday so I asked my mom to take my two children for a couple of hours so I could write. She also kindly offered to get me bread and milk so I could avoid the stockpiling masses at the supermarket.

I remembered a 9:30 a.m. research call while in the bathroom at 9:25 a.m. (I do a lot of good work in the bathroom but I promise I didn’t write this on the toilet). I wrote for an hour and half and then realized the blizzard had started and it was approaching whiteout conditions. I wondered why my mom had called to yell at me and then my phone rang.

“I’m on my way. I know, I know,” I answered.

“Hmm. I should think so.”

I went and got the munchkins, drove home in an Arctic tundra and told them to go out in the play (yes in aforementioned Arctic tundra because it’s Maine and that’s what we do). I shoveled off the deck, broke up a few snow ball in my eyes fights, tried to turn the sled into a luge, popped inthe house to take raw brownies out of the oven and then popped back in to realize the raw brownies needed to go back in the oven.  I watched Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, cooked a chicken curry while messaging friends in Ireland and then tried to help my daughter with (ABC that she duped me into buying on the IPad by telling me ‘She wanted to learn to read and get smarter.’ Damn advertising. I ignored some fighting from the living room until the yelling escalated into hurt crying.

My son had kicked my daughter in the throat on the couch. Lovely. I yelled at him and sent him to his room. He stomped up the stairs and apparently starting crafting my Valentine.

About half an hour later I noticed a folded piece of paper on the floor of the dining room that had been thrown down the stairs with care. I couldn’t quite make out what was written on the front but I naively thought it might be an apology note.

Dear Mom, I think you are the evilest mom on the planet. You are stupid. You are the worst.

(He’s seven so I am translating the spelling into the intended message cause it is the thought that counts).

My son then signed it with three hearts before his name like a sadistic stalker in a Lifetime movie.

I brought my love poem upstairs to confirm the prose and was informed that there was another note for me on his desk chair that says “You are cursed.” No shit, what are you a gypsy?

After informing my sweet first-born that he was staying in his room unti his father came home (dejavu), I enjoyed a romantic meal for one. My daughter is a Union rep and insists on going upstairs in solidarity to play just outside his door when he’s not allowed downstairs (even though the punishment is for hurting her. I can’t go there.) so she didn’t join me either.

I then realized there was 12 inches of snow blocking the driveway and my husband was due home in 30 minutes so I was going to have to drag the snow blower through mountains of snow and whipping wind. It sounded like a nice change from reading hate mail.  I yelled upstairs that I was going out to snow blow and for them both to stay up there until I came back inside.

“Wait, I’ve been working on a Valentine for you that I want to give you before you go,” my son called down.  He came bounding down the stairs with a sweet smile and handed me another piece of folded notebook paper.

“There’s a ticket inside too, Mom.”

Dear Mom, You are mean but I love you. You are fun too. You help me with my story. 

Signed with a heart again.

“It’s supposed to say you are mean sometimes. I forgot that part,” my little Shakespeare assured me.

The ticket was for a  30 minute massage (a mososh) on the 14th at 12:00 for $3. It’s a $7 discount for what is apparently a $10 service. Me first; then Dad.

Imagine if you met this guy on