Making reservations at fine Italian restaurants will be impossible tomorrow. But the day after tomorrow, heart-shaped Whitman Samplers will be easy to buy. And the day after that, we can put away the red pajamas and candles and wine glasses and resort to the daily grind of the obligatory “I love yous.” Or the obligatory neglect of such a wonderful phrase.

It's not that I am not romantic, or that I don't comprehend the beauty of such a day. Growing up it was one of the two most beautiful days of each year. It wasn't the candy I got from my mom. I really hated chocolate and red sweet things as a child. It wasn't the silly little valentine cards stuffed in my red construction-paper-heart-shaped-mailbox thumb-tacked to the cloak room wall in my third grade classroom. I really hated that, to me anyway, my mailbox always seemed to be thinner than those of the other kids.

Growing up wasn't an easy thing to do in my mom and dad's house. Their affectionate demonstrations for each other came more in the forms of slammed doors, words we young ones weren't allowed to utter, and broken dishes and promises.

We all loved each other. Or at least, I felt loved by the other four there - my parents and two siblings. I certainly loved them. And I got “I love yous” from my mama often. But tired, dirty and smelly soldiers dodging enemy fire in fox holes half way around the world probably feel for their comrades the same kind of things I felt for my family in our house. In the midst of endless battle, they love each other. They just don't always show it.

Two times each year, the love dynamics at our house changed. My siblings and I never got to see our parents embrace and kiss the way Lucy and Ricky embraced and kissed each other at the end of most of those Desilu episodes. We certainly never witnessed an Al and Tipper Gore center stage kind of thing. But as I recall, I felt something good happening to our family every Valentine's Day. I felt the same way every year on the anniversary of my parents' marriage. It wasn't much. But it was monumental. It didn't last. But it was unremitting. On each of those two days, my dad would bring home maybe a card, maybe candy, maybe orthopedic shoes or a spatula. The man would walk into the house after work, looking very proud of himself for bringing even the weakest of romantic gifts to his wife. He even took the cigar out of his mouth for such entrances. And he had a smile and a swagger.

He would swagger in, smile through the absence of his stogy, and quickly approach my mom with his arms outstretched. It always startled Mama in a silly and innocent sort of way. My dad would advance toward his bride and back her into a corner, all the time displaying his puckered lips and saying the same thing he always said and in the same fun way he always said it on those two days to alert Mama as to what was coming her way.

“Gimme a keese, Mama!”

Mama always fought off his advances with a small-town girlish innocence, tight lips, and embarrassed smiles. But those brief moments, just two times each year, she would submit to her love for her husband, and with her red cheeks puffed up by the smiling tight lips, accept the kisses he would plant there. On those two days the other 363 seemed distant and insignificant.

When red pajamas instead of slammed doors, candles instead of harsh words, and unbroken wine glasses filled with the sweet taste of unbroken promises become our every moment of our every day – well, that will be beautiful.

Two days is just not enough.

Click HERE to read about the recent birth of my fourth grandchild in "Delivery Room" on Lunacy!