I'm writing from the shadow of Valentine’s Day.

Such a dumb holiday.

I didn’t always feel this way. My kids certainly don’t. See my son: tongue pressed against his cheek, pen clasped in his hand, painstakingly addressing his classmates’ valentines. See my daughter: shoulders hunched, as if she were cheating on a spelling test, writing secret notes to her girlfriends (boys have not yet entered the equation, or so I’m told).

All those tiny valentine’s cards have now been deposited in lavishly decorated shoeboxes. Most of them are probably already in the trash.

The candy remains, however. Pocket-size bags of Skittles and M&Ms my wife won’t let my children eat are piled in the drawer beneath the coffee pot, tempting my children (my son, especially) to no end.

It’s all so cruel and pointless.

Or maybe I’m just bitter because I miss it.

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I can still remember the faith I had in such small slips of paper. I spent hours trying to discern the messages (“Be Mine” or “Kiss Me”) stamped on candy hearts, especially if those hearts had been given to me by my latest crush.

There are new phrases on my kids’ candy hearts, words like “BAE” and “GOAT.” I wonder what they make of such things? I know that “GOAT” stands for “Greatest of All Time,” but my son does not. He can barely spell his own name, much less read.

Maybe I’m bitter because instead of a candlelit dinner, my wife and I spent our Valentine’s Day at a third-grade girls basketball tournament. Nothing says “romance” like traveling violations and bricked layups.

There was a time, over a decade ago, when I loved Valentine’s Day. I loved it so much I wrote a song for a girl that went like this:

She don’t like Valentine’s Day.
Says a rose is bought to be thrown away.
But I’m a loving kind of man.
This ol’ chocolate heart will melt in your hand.

Yes, that girl turned out to be my wife, and she is the culprit.

It took me thirteen years to fully understand her disdain for commercial love. It took a Valentine’s Day chock full of basketball games and drum lessons (did I mention the drum lessons?) and snotty noses and burgeoning coughs that ended in a night where our daughter couldn’t/wouldn’t stay in her bed — for me to realize that real love, true love, isn’t always pretty.

Or fun.

Or sexy.

Or any of the other things our culture has us chasing.

Real love is hard work.

And it’s not a one day out of the year thing. Love is tough enough to stand the test of time. It weathers all storms.

Love is climbing into bed after your daughter finally falls asleep at a little past midnight, after a Valentine’s Day from hell, and still holding each other tight.

Love is as simple as a kiss goodnight.

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