My funny, small and frosted Valentine

A lot of people who love me have asked me if I am worried about Valentine's Day and if I am sad not to spend it as I may have expected. The answer is not at all. I am perfectly happy this Valentine's Day.

I don't needed too much to celebrate. My mom makes a big deal of it and I love the pomp and circumstance of balloons and heart-shaped pizzas or pink pancakes and cutesy panties gift-wrapped in metallic red packages. All of these little, personal and quirky touches are more fun to me than roses or big cards decorated with velveteen flowers and calligraphied poems my brother rolls his eyes at and says defiantly, "Too much to read!" I'll pass on the inflated-prixe dinner out or the pressure for an overdone romantic present for something small and sweet.

This year, part of my perfect happiness is that my Valentine is my smallest and my sweetest. Sure, he threw a tantrum in the grocery store today because I wouldn't let him open the gallon of juice right then and there in the aisle to drink without a sippy cup or even just out of his little sticky cupped hands.

And sure, he melted down in a big pile of snow when I shoveled the part of the sidewalk that is apparently designated as a preschooler-only on-duty area. Yes, he is still getting me with that "My body's telling me I really really really have to go potty" trick as soon as his head hits the pillow, no matter how many times he's already gone in the last hour or how often I've reminded him he will not go once stories and snuggles are over. Sigh.

Still, the sweetest bit of the day is this kid sat on the step stool licking the spatula of pink icing as we made cupcakes together and asked me about Valentine's Day.

I told him it was about love, about the people you love and about telling them that you love them. I told him you ask the people you love to be your Valentine as a way to show them how you feel.

And without missing a beat, he looked up at me, all smeared in pink sugary goodness and asked, "Will you be MY Valentine?"

"Absolutely!," I said. "Always. And will you be mine?"

"Yeah!," he nodded enthusiastically. "I WILL!"

The kid's timing -- as the meltdowns and the potty requests and his remarkably accurate Simon Cowell impression and the tidbits of complete and utter tenderness attest to -- is impeccable. He's good. Very good. I've heard people say he can really work it, and he can, but I like to think that he is actually, mostly a great read, whether we are talking seriously or in Target post-tantrum or prepping for a minor holiday.

Before bed, groggy and still with some of the blue and red and yellow pinpoint stains of sprinkles dotting his little fingers, I carried him, kissed him, and whispered that I loved him.

He whispered back, "I love you too, Valentine."

And my heart opened up like a bud or an oyster shell or a hand revealing something tender and delicate, something brief that stays in your mind's eye for a long, long time.

Then, as he asked me if he could please go potty, it quietly returned. Still, there it was. All the doily and sleek white box full of flowers and decadent candies and flourished card and tiny box with sparkling something inside and big plans and elaborate feelings expressed in markers and crayons and fountain pens and sky writing -- all of that seems frivolous. Lovely, sure but frivolous.

I don't need my son to fill the place where a romantic partner was or will be. But if this day is really about telling the people we love most that our heart beats for them, then I am quite good being where I am. I'll take this construction paper heart cut crooked and pasted with lumpy glue and grocery store tantrums and happily meet it with crumbly, warm cupcakes with too much and too sugary pink icing, with only a few words to take in and give out. I am so so so fine giving back all the glitter and grandiosity for that small and sweet sitting on the step stool with a his own big and open heart.

Jessica Ashley is a newly single mom who blogs about everything from cupcakes to co-op to clicky-clicky shoes at Sassafrass.