After last week’s Valentine’s Day snow storm, I was pretty much convinced that Cupid had it in for me. A day of shoveling snow while watching my baby scream through the car window as he sat in his comfy, warm car-seat was just not the love-fest I had in mind, and I was pretty sure if that little arrow-shooting baby came around, it might be me throwing arrows at him.

I was convinced that little if anything could change my grinchy mood, but on Friday, my real Valentine’s Day arrived. It started with a 6 a.m. phone call, something that usually makes me feel a sense of dread. Very few people will call you at 6 a.m. to see how you’re doing. It’s usually a sign of something bad. What kind of crazy thing did -insert a sister’s name here- do now?, I wondered. I’ve been called at early hours to take care of broken fingers, broken hearts and one incident with a rock and a car windshield, but on Friday sister trauma was not the cause.

I ran through the house half-blinded by the towel that was slipping off my head and my toothbrush leaving a toothpaste trail from the bathroom to the kitchen, trying to grab the phone before it woke up the sleeping baby. My husband’s voice greeted me from the other end, which is always a pleasant surprise, no matter what time it is. My husband has spent the last year in Afghanistan, which many people tell me is the key to a successful marriage, but since we actually enjoy our time together, I was thrilled to hear his voice.