Even I can’t let the day o’ love go by without putting my 7cents into it. Before get started, I have to provide some backstory in order for you to understand this tale in its entirety.

So, I went to a Catholic, all girls high school in New Jersey called Mount Saint Mary’s Academy. No, it wasn’t some kind of punishment for acting up in junior high. I actually asked my parents if I could go there. I was done with the public school scene and the “mean girls” that existed before Mean Girls made it to the big scene. The Mount meant uniforms, nuns, and just XX’s in the genetic code. It really wasn’t a big deal and I consider myself a better person for having had the experience.

How does Valentine’s Day fit in to all of this? Well, girls being girls, we all like to brag, especially when it comes to boyfriends. Every year if Valentine’s Day fell during the school week, the main office was teeming with FTD delivery people bearing large bouquets of flowers, boxes of assorted chocolates, stuffed teddy bears and the assorted frivolity that goes with the day. During any given class block, various names would be announced over the loud speaker, summoning girls to the main office. We all knew why and it was inevitable that if a girl whose name was called wasn’t in your class at that time, you probably saw her walking down the hall, her arms laden with babies breath, roses, and balloons. If you didn’t happen to see her, you could guarantee that one of your friends had and would be more than happy to fill you on who got what from whom.

Freshman year, I watched several of my friends skip to and from the office on the 14th of February. I don’t think I had a boyfriend — I must not have if I can’t even recall — or if I didn’t, he wasn’t forward thinking enough to send flowers to my school.

Every year, the number of my friends who received things grew. I wasn’t hosting any pity parties for myself, don’t get me wrong. Congrats to the friends that raked it in; besides, they were always willing to share the chocolate. I had guys that I liked and a few that I would consider a boyfriend, but none that ever seemed to be on the roster around Valentine’s Day. Then, something changed the Valentine’s Day of my senior year.

The summer before my juinor year was my transition year. The braces were off, I was wearing contact lenses full time, my hair had started to cooperate with the chemical relaxer and I was no longer afraid of burning myself with the curling iron. I was running with a pretty cool crowd, I was getting good grades and soon enough, I was going to get my license. Fast forward to senior year, and more of the same, albeit, even more so. Things were going well. There were several boys that I had dated, and there were one or two that I had crushes on, but as in the past, there was no one that I was counting on to remember me for Valentine’s Day.

So (and I have to take a little creative liberty here because while I remember what happens next, the minute details escape me), I’m in the senior lounge, probably doing vocab flashcards with some friends or I’m in the Lion’s Den (SGA office on campus) doing Student Government stuff as the Executive Board VEEP, when lo, my name is called over the loudspeaker.

Now, I’ve never been a troublemaker. Goody-goody is a name that comes to mind, but I digress. What I’m trying to say is that I wasn’t worried about going to the office when my name was called. I didn’t know what was going on, but I was positive that it didn’t have anything to do with demerits or detention.

I get to the office and the receptionist, Sister Mary Answer the Telephone points to a large box of a dozen long stemmed roses and says, “That’s for you, dear.”

Here’s what I thought in the 3 nanoseconds it took for me to say, “Thanks” –Flowers on the desk-nice flowers-there’s a card with my name on it-WTH-is this some kind of joke-I bet it’s from Mom and Dad since they were tired of hearing me complain that everybody else got flowers but me.

I scooped up the flowers and ran (more like shot down the hall) to the senior lounge and flung the door open before coolly gliding in with my flowers. Appearances are everything, don’t you know.

And as I basked in the adulation and questioning of my peers, my hand travelled to the card that was with the flowers. Nope, I hadn’t yet opened it. I was savoring this. The card, which I still have to this day, said,

Can I get a “WTH?” Thank you. When you go to an all girls school such as mine and there are alternating study hall periods, that is just a nerve center of all things female. Every girl who had a free period studied that card, doing handwriting analysis, smelling it to ascertain what kind of cologne could be clinging to the cardstock and envelope. There were several that went so far as asking me or people who knew me about the guys that I had crushes on or who could possibly (like it’s so hard to imagine) have a crush on me. Could it be Danny G. from Plainfield High? Could it be Kiadii H. from the Tatnall School? What about his best friend and Christian Bale look-alike Julian T. ? Hey a girl can dream, right? What about Chris M., Kevin V. or dare we think it, uber crush extraordinaire, Brian O. (drool, drool)?

There were some naysayers and detractors who offered the following: My parents, my brother, my grandparents, myself. C’mon now people. Don’t hate the player, hate the game, right?

Anyway, to this day, 14 years later (yikes!) I still don’t know sent me that note and those gorgeous flowers. I grilled my parents (no), my brother (yeah, right), and casually asked among the guys that I talked to, but nothing came of it.

Funny enough, at my 10 year high school reunion, a bunch of us sat around a bar, drinking and reminincing and that February 14th came up. The question was asked, “Did you ever find out who sent you those flowers?”

Nope, but when I run across the card, I’ll pick a name at random and content myself with imagining that person as the sender of the flowers and the extremely fortunate recipient of my girlhood crush.

To: The OBs, Gyns, MDs, DDSs, DOs, LPNs, CNPs et. al

From: Me and my various body parts

Subject: Gentility

I appreciate the fact that there are a number of patients on the books waiting to see you for their appointments all hours of the day during normal business hours and sometimes after hours. However, when I have spent the better part of my appointment in the waiting room thumbing through dog-eared copies of Reader’s Digest featuring an in-depth interview with Norman Rockwell and then am finally escorted back to the actual examination room, when you glide through the door, please do your best to fake like you didn’t just read my name off of my chart. I know that I am but one of many faces you will see today, but when you come into the exam room, let’s pretend that there is no place either you have to or would rather be. Focus people, focus.

When you press your frosty stethoscope to my chest, back, and stomach to check for various burbles and gurgles, be gentle in the pressure you apply. Belching, or worse, breaking wind (I had to clean it up for the masses) in front of you is going to be nothing but embarrassing for the both of us. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s a bodily function and we all do it, but we ain’t that close. Trust me.

When you stick the otoscope in my ear, trust me, the plastic guard does not have to poke out the other side of my head. And please don’t comment on the wax build-up. No matter how frequently I clean my ears, there’s always going to be some in there. I know that, you know that.

When you look into my eyes with your pen light or up my nose with your nose-looker-upper (a.k.a otoscope), don’t make small talk with me that requires me to answer questions. Your nose is about two inches from my mouth and even though I used Listerine, there are times when I doubt its effectiveness. Plus, I’d hate to bite off the tip of your nose inadvertently. That’s going to be tough to explain to the insurance company.

When you have jammed my mouth full of pointy, hooked and/or blunt tipped instruments, please don’t inquire after my children, my husband, my house hunting or lack thereof, or my plans for the upcoming week-end. I can’t answer you, at least not in a language we both understand as English.

When you are doing a cheek, nostril, throat, cervix or any other kind of swab, pretend that it’s your cheek, nostril, throat or cervix that is about to get tested. Let’s not see how many times I gag before you finally finish. You don’t have to scratch my brain to make sure you’ve swabbed the inside of my nose thoroughly enough. I don’t want to see the end of the q-tip through my stomach when you’re testing my cervix for abnormal cells. See, when I wince, suck in my breath, clench my eyes shut or do any thing other than breathe normally, I’m probably a little uncomfortable.

When you are attempting to draw blood, even after I have told you that I have small, jumpy veins, please don’t “see if I can get it one more time”. I’m not a pin cushion. Switching back and forth between arms really doesn’t do much to instill further confidence in your ability. Go back to practicing on oranges. Don’t even think about asking me to show you the backs of my hands. Sure, some blood will be drawn, but it’ll be coming out of your nose from where I punched you in it.

When you have already administered anesthesia that is supposed to knock me out and yet, I’m still having a conversation with you, don’t act surprised when I say, “Yes, I can feel you pinching/pulling/poking me.” Really, I don’t need a natural experience when it comes to having a C-section.

I’ve come to realize, as my feet dangle in the stirrups and my butt cheeks hang precariously off the edge of the table or as I recline the chair with my mouth stuffed with novacaine and enough cotton balls to stuff several bras or as my thighs stick to the paper covers exam table while the rest of my body is rubbed raw under the rough paper gown or is totally visible through the threadbare cloth gown that I’m actually paying you to poke, prod, and pinch me in some pretty private areas. You didn’t even buy me dinner. Hell, you didn’t even know my name until you looked at it as you turned the knob on the exam room door.

You have a job to do. I appreciate that. But just for a second, let’s put the gown on you and the chart in my hands. If ever a time called for the golden rule, this is one of them.

Very truly yours,

Hilary with one “L” and her body.

On the advice of another veteran mom, I decided to up the ante with the potty training and put a potty in the back of the car.

We’re in the car often enough that this plan makes sense. So, I’ve got potty #2 in the tailgate next to the stroller, the cloth grocery bags, the jumper cables and the all weather picnic sheet. Nice and cozy. Surprisingly, Morgs doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, every time I pluck her out of the carseat (or before I plunk her buns back in it), we have a visit to the car potty. I think she thinks it’s exciting.

Case in point. We went to Bennett’s Creek Park after playgroup the other day for some fun and sun. Norfolk weather has been absolutely ridiculous as of late. One day it’s about 48 degrees, cloudy and drizzling, the next day (hello yesterday and today), it’s sunny, 68, and wonderful. So, we go to the park with our pals and our lunches. Open tailgate, get the Morgs and plunk her on the pot. No joke, my girl is quite happy to be there and informs me after five minutes, “I still have more pee pee to do.” Alrighty then.

Coever is hanging out in the carseat, observing as usual. Our friends are skipping and jumping, running and swinging on the playgroup equipment, doing the very things I think Morgs would be itching to go do. My girl is adamant that she’s still got “more pee pee, Mama. More pee pee to do”. Oooookay.

The car is one link in a chain of cars parked adjacent to the playground leaving room for other cars and rec/parks vehicles to navigate past. The tailgate is open for all of the park to see into this makeshift ladies room and wouldn’t you know it, a cavalcade of Suffolk parks and recs lawn mowers, tractors, and other members of the earth digging/moving family start rolling by. In the interest of privacy and modesty, which Morgs all but demands at home when she’s on the pot, I move to stand in front of her, blocking the view. No haps.

“Look at the tractor, Mama. I see the tractor, Mama. I still have pee-pee to do. Hi, Tractor!” And like a miniature Queen Elizabeth (that’s a little redundant, right?), Morgs stands up and begins to wave frantically at the man on the lawn mower and the man in the tractor. As they drive past either oblivious or mortified into inaction, Morgs turns to continue to wave, exposing her backside* to the road and to the dad in the ’98 Explorer bringing up the rear who just wanted to take his son out to play catch. A full moon on a sunny Wednesday afternoon? I doubt that was in the Farmer’s Almanac for February 6th.

*every time I see those buns, I think of Dr. Evil in Austin Powers 2 saying Mini-me’s buns look like, “Two eggs in a hanky.” That always cracks me up.

I don’t consider myself a private person or a prude person, but I do like my personal space when it comes to taking care of my post-workout cleanliness routine.

I go to the Downtown to workout about 3 or 4 times a week. Aside from the bulging diaper bag, I’ve got my gym bag with my toilteries, my clothes, my shoes, and various other beautification aides. So, I go work out, grab my towels and head to the locker room. I find a locker, drop my stuff and hit the shower.

Problem #1 — The communal shower is set up so that there are two private stall showers on either side of the entrance, and then 4 shower heads set into the wall on either side of the larger shower room. I don’t mind the communal shower. I mean, we’ve all got the same parts, some people’s parts have just become on more intimate terms with gravity, graying and such. No big deal. More often than not, I come at a time where there is either one or no other person in the shower. Usually, I’m in there by myself. I’m not dancing around like Tom Cruise in Risky Busienss, but the being by myself is nice. I fire up my shower, arrange my towels and body sponge and stand under the stream. I hear the door open and shut, some one else is coming in. When I turn around and open my eyes, I’m knee to knee with another woman. Hello! Let’s check the scene:

Two shower stalls — empty
4 shower heads on one wall — empty
4 shower heads on other wall – I’m using one on the far left, there is a woman next to me, and then there are two EMPTY shower heads next to her.

WTH? Why are you all up on me? There are 8 other empty spaces for you to rinse your biscuits under!! Back it up. Without fail this happens and I’ve noticed, it doesn’t matter who the woman is. Someone inevitably wants to be my neighbor. Even when there is someone else in the shower, say on the opposite side of the room, the third party gravitates towards me.

Look, I came to the gym to work out and take a shower in peace. I get an audience when I go to the bathroom at home.

Problem #2 — So, I get out of the shower, head to my locker. The locker I’ve chosen now looks like one of those bug zappers with women in various states on undress circling around it. Mind you, there are dozens of other lockers, benches and areas of free space available. The women then engage in this awkward conversation of feigned politeness. I’ll translate this for you as I go.

“Oh, am I in your way?” Look heffa, I just sat down and got out all of my stuff.

“Oh, no not at all. You’re fine.” Um, yeah you’re in my way! Don’t you see that lock in front of you? That means someone is using that locker. ME!

“I can move. I’m almost done.” I’m naked, my hair is wrapped in a towel and I just started to dial my girlfriend on my cell phone. I haven’t even begun to get it together.

“Don’t worry about it. Please, really, you’re fine.” Why are you even going to try that line? I can see that you’re naked, your hair is wrapped in a towel and you’ve got your cell phone out, probably about to call your friend and talk really loudly about things that don’t matter to anyone but you.

*sigh* I just wanted to get my heart rate up, not my blood pressure.

So we have begun the potty training, Thus far, we’re being met with pretty good success. The one thing that has dawned on me, however, is that the “training” in potty training is becoming more applicable to us rather than to her. Seriously, Morgan has us trained better than Pavlov’s dogs, no bell necessary. All she has to do is say, “I have to go potty,” and we drop everything, come running, scoop her up, drop her on the pot, hand her a book and say, “Call me when you’re finished”. Evidently, she likes her privacy.

But here’s the thing: She announces her need for the toilet at the most interesting times. Say she isn’t that taken with the culinary feast of grilled chicken, hummus, and green beans that I have prepared for dinner. “I have to go potty.” How about when we’ve done our nighttime ritual and we’re lowering her into the crib? “I have to go potty.” My personal favorite? When we are in the middle of Wal-Mart/Target/the mall or any other place where finding the bathroom, let alone getting there requires pack mules and a Sherpa, she says, of course, “I have to go potty.”

And of course, I drop everything, careen us through the aisles, find the bathroom, kick open the stall, line the seat, drop her pants, tear off the pull-up, sit her on the pot and she says, “I’m done.”

Yeah, me, too.

Morgan likes for me to sing songs to her as the final pass of our naptime/bedtime dance. After we’ve done the potty, put on the do-rag — yes, she wears a rag — , read several stories a la Olivia and gotten the blankie, she asks for me to sing some songs. I know that this is her stall tactic to prevent the inevitable, but she is so sweet and cuddly and her voice is that 2 year old saccharine pitch, how can I say no? I really should, though because my song catalog is quite thin.

I can squeak through a few staples like “Itsy Bitsy Spider”, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”, ” You are my Sunshine”, “If You’re Happy and You Know It”, and a handful of Bible Songs (her current faves), but after that, I’m reaching. I’ll throw in my sorority hymn, my high school and college songs, “Happy Birthday”, and a couple of songs that I made up for her when she was just a few weeks old. After that, I’m out. What’s even worse is that I know I don’t sing well. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket and I sing in the key of F. She doesn’t seem to mind because for her Mommy’s tuneless singing = less naptime or later bedtime.

I’m trying to expand my repetoire, though. And despite my previous rants against the DP’s, sadly, I’ve turned to the theme songs from their movies as new fodder. Of course, my memory isn’t what it used to be. I think the last time I saw Aladdin I was still living in New Jersey, probably in 1992. Yikes, let’s not do the math on that one. But I digress. So I starting singing “A Whole New World” and that’s as far as I get. I’ve got the tune (to the best of my ability), but the words fail me. It goes like this. . .”A Whole New World. . .la la la la di da di da” and repeat for another minute or so. But like I said, Morgan doesn’t seem to mind. I tried “Can You Feel The Love Tonight” from the Lion King, “You’ll Be In My Heart” from Tarzan, and “Somewhere Out There” from An American Tale. Not only could I barely get through that last one for lack of knowing the words, but thinking of Little Fievel Mousekewitz all alone — I’m getting a little verklempt just thinking about it.

So perfectionist that I am, I’ve Googled all of the aforementioned song lyrics and I plan to keep them next to the rocking chair so that when it’s naptime or bedtime, I can whip out my cheat sheet and belt my little heart out. Albeit off key, but who cares? I feel like a good mom and Morgan gets to stay up that much longer.