A few days before Valentine's Day, my darling husband looked at me out of the blue and we had a conversation that went something like this:
Brent: "So, um, you know we're not doing anything for Valentine's Day, right?"
Me, dumbfounded: "What?"
Brent: "Yeah. We're going on vacation in two weeks, so that's going to be our Valentine's Day gift to each other."
Me, still dumbfounded: "You mean we aren't even going to go out for dinner?"
Brent, adamant: "No. Maybe we'll get tacos."
Me, even more dumbfounded as to why he would randomly suggest tacos: "You mean you aren't even going to get me flowers?"
Brent: "No! I'm taking you on vacation instead. Doesn't that sound better?"
Me, thinking that while it does sound way better, I'd rather have some fun and act like I'm a girl and deeply care about such things as flowers on Valentine's Day: "I guess. But I DO like flowers."
So this morning, when I wake up at the God-awful time of 4:05 a.m. to get ready to start work at 4:45 a.m., I sleepily reach over for the remote to turn on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air so I can wake up, and I find a folded, hand-written love note from my husband with the words "Happy Valentine's Day" scrawled on the top.
Of course, being the girl that I am who actually DOES care about love notes on Valentine's Day, I started to cry while reading his heartfelt words about his thoughts regarding our first Valentine's Day as husband and wife.
So ignoring the fact that I try to not wake him up when I have to work early in the morning, I finished reading the note, then re-read it several times before bursting back into the bedroom, jumping on top of him snuggled under the covers in bed, and kissing him between saying, "thank you, thank you, thank you!"
After a few moments, he successfully pushed me away so he could roll over to go back to sleep, I then hear him mumble, "Now isn't that better than flowers?" Comments like those are so typical Brent and why I so desperately love that man!
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