50 Shades of Romance

I have a confession, and it's a doozy. I have two English degrees. I spent a number of years learning to write, and I still find more than a small amount of entertainment in diagramming sentences. And yet, I did it. I confess. I read 50 Shades of Grey. 

It gets worse.

I read all three of the books.

Call me an optimist. I really thought the second book had to be better than the first, and surely, the third must be better than the second. I was wrong.

For the blessedly uninitiated, the plain (ahem) vanilla version of the story is this: Girl meets boy. Boy pursues girl. Girl and boy fall in love. Girl discovers boy is astonishingly wealthy. Girl and boy fall out of love. And in love. And out of love. And in love. Etcetera, so forth and so on, until they get married and live happily ever after.

The story is romantic, I suppose. But what struck me in this season of pink hearts, red roses, and chocolates was that I didn't find the grand romantic gestures in the books to be the most appealing. Do I envy the European honeymoon? Or the lavishly expensive designer gowns? Perhaps. But not as much as I envy Mrs. Jones.

Who is Mrs. Jones?

She's Rich Boy's housekeeper. She vacuums. She grocery shops. She cooks--except on the weekends, of course.  And, be still my beating heart, she does laundry; she washes their clothes, folds them, and brings them back, clean and smelling like lilacs by morning. Take notes Lothario, because after age 30, romance takes on a whole new meaning.

No longer is romance defined by the number of roses that grace my desk or the glass(es) of wine drunk on a late night dinner date. You want romance? Show me an empty laundry hamper and drawers lined with fresh stacks of crisply folded t-shirts. Box of chocolates? Sure, but only if they're served on freshly Windex-ed counter tops.

We celebrated Valentine's Day with a red vinyl tablecloth, roses, pizza, and the two small ones. It was a good day. Romantic? Absolutely. Because, after the pizza was eaten, baths were taken, and toddler cheeks were kissed soundly goodnight, I came downstairs to discover an empty sink, wiped counters, and, be still my beating heart, a freshly swept floor.

Romance, it seems, has more than 50 shades. Dr. Gary Chapman speaks of the five love languages, of which, acts of service is one.  Romance can be flowers, chocolates, European honeymoons, and lavishly expensive designer gowns. More realistically in this time of our lives when we spend more hours a day wiping noses and bottoms than we spend talking to each other, romance is found in those little acts--clean socks, smooth sheets at bedtime, a re-filled coffee canister, or a freshly stocked refrigerator.

A dozen yellow roses brighten the mornings in my kitchen this week.  I've eaten more than my share of Hershey's. And I'm grateful for those little celebrations. But in this lovely month of February, and these days year round, I'm finding my romance in newly vacuumed shag carpet, a sandwich that I didn't make myself, homemade s'mores, and a glass of wine that didn't require that I put on shoes to go out.

(And, because I'm a mom, here are some Valentine's pictures of my kids.)

This is where she spent most of her time during her bubby's party. Siblings weren't invited, but she didn't seem to mind. 

Valentine's cupcakes are the best kind.

She sneaked in and stole a few crackers when he wasn't watching.

But we made her earn her keep. She's a good little helper.

Valentine's Day was always one of my favorites in school. There's candy, and a party, and everyone gives you a card that tells you you're special. I think he felt pretty special too.