You guys,
In third grade everyone in the class got a valentine.
Mom took me to CVS and let me pick out which box of 20 cards I wanted. Would it be Lion King, Tiny Tunes, Space Jam, Roger Rabbit, the Popples, Animaniacs? I took my time choosing the very best ones and the ones that would best represent me.
When I got home I spread the cards on the floor—there was always an assortment of four different kinds—and chose which classmates would get which cards based on who I liked the most and who I liked the least.
But in third grade my favorite card—which had a character with sunglasses and said something like “You’re too cool for school, Valentine,”—was not enough to give my crush, Timmy Black. I wanted to give Timmy something more, something special, something I wasn’t giving to anyone else.
My Dad worked as general manager at Heritage’s Dairy Stores, a popular chain in South Jersey similar to 7-Eleven. It was the best job ever because sometimes he brought home Entenmann’s coffee cake, mini fruit pies, and powdered donuts. They were expired, of course.
Right before Valentine’s Day Dad brought home Little Debbie Valentine Snack Cakes. They were heart-shaped strawberry cupcakes with white frosting and pink swirls that came in packs of two.
In the corner of Ms. Mick’s classroom were mailboxes for everyone in the class. They were shoe-box-size cubbies with our names on them, and on the morning of Valentine’s Day we scrambled to put our valentines in each of our peers’ boxes.
At lunchtime I carefully opened my Little Debbie Snack Cakes and ate one. I smiled thinking how excited Timmy would be to receive the other one. I carefully bent the thin white sleeve the cupcakes sat on and wrapped the lone cupcake in its cellophane wrapper.
After lunch when no one was looking I snuck over and placed the cupcake in Timmy’s mailbox.
When the bell rang for the end of the school day I stared intently at my books and folders as I slowly collected them, while everyone else swarmed the mailboxes to retrieve their valentines in a buzzing frenzy.
Suddenly Timmy yelled, “Ew!!!”
He picked up my cupcake as if he were holding a dead mouse by its tail. “Who left a half-eaten cupcake in my mailbox?!”
My classmates laughed and pointed. I diverted my eyes, burning up under my jacket. Not me not me not me, I thought. Definitely not me. I kept my head down and rushed to the classroom door.
It wasn’t a half-eaten cupcake, Timmy. It was a whole, beautiful, perfect, best-valentine-ever cupcake.
Happy birthday, Layla!
My daughter turned two last week. When I announced throughout the day that it was her birthday her response every time was to smile and shake her head and say, “Not George!”
Last year Layla earned the nickname, Cachetes, which means cheeks in Spanish. When she’s close to me I can’t stop myself from kissing those cheeks, which feel like water balloons filled up with Jello pudding.
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Until next week,
Charlie
Charlie, I've spent YEARS in therapy overcoming my unworthiness that stems from writing Diane a special message on her valentine in the 4th grade, only to learn she wrote a special message to my best friend Scott. Your reflection takes me right back to feeling the emotional pit in my stomach. The good news - is I feel worthy while writing this - so the therapy worked!
Timmy, you fool.