It's Kind of a Long Story... BONUS STORY about VALENTINES

I choo- choo- choose you

I woke up this morning thinking about the elaborate classroom Valentine mailbox trend. I dictated a post in my mind while I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I shared it on Facebook as soon as I could get to a keyboard.

People are responding. It triggered me and has struck a nerve, so I decided to share it here to.

I’ll also share the post I have been sharing on Facebook on Valentine’s Day for the last few years:

Valentine's Day can be wonderful. And silly. And hard.

May you:

• Celebrate the love in your life - shout it from the rooftops!

• Have the strength to leave a love that's not enough.

• Be OK with not having or wanting a typical, traditional romantic love - it's not for everyone.

• Find the love you want.

• Embrace all of the love in your life. Sometimes it's hard to find - but it's there.

• Have the vulnerability to tell some one "I love you!"

• Really believe someone when they say, "I love you!"

• Feel the sadness if today makes you sad. It's part of being human. It's why there are so many songs about heartbreak.

Love,

Lara

I’m so glad you’re here,

-Lara

Wait a Minute Mr. Postman

Short story: 

Within a day, I saw three friends post on Facebook about elaborate mailboxes made by kids (and/or their parents) for Valentine’s Day. I had no idea this was a trend or thing. I wish it wasn’t

Long story:

I have recently learned that elaborate classroom Valentine's Day mailboxes are a thing.

One more way for overextended and/or non-crafty moms to feel inadequate.

One more way for kids who don't have the support or resources to create these creations to feel left out.

Nope, definitely not a competition

Kids will always find ways to make the poor, awkward and weird kids feel poor, awkward and weird. They don't need their teachers, classrooms and schools to give them more opportunities and encouragement.

Classroom dynamics and norms and culture are minefields year-round, and are inevitably heightened at Valentine's Day.

Who will give to who? Are mine cool, creative, or good enough?

My mom and I always made simple, homemade cards. A heart cut from red and pink patterned paper or a heart-shaped sponge print on white cardstock. All the same for every kid.

One year I didn't want to give a card to Kevin. My mom said if I didn't give them to everyone, I couldn't give them at all.

So, I didn't give them at all. I still stand by my choice.

Other kids brought cards from the store with goofy phrases or licensed characters. They made carefully calculated maneuvers about who would get which one. You knew where you stood as soon as you opened and compared cards.

I don't recall mailboxes or bags? We must have done something.

When Max was growing up, I was the very over-extended mom, and also crafty and determined that whatever indignity he inevitably would suffer in the blackboard jungle, it wouldn't be because his Valentines or classroom treats were sub-par.

His wise teacher's policy was:

• Bring Valentine's for everyone if you bring them at all

• Every Valentine has to be exactly the same

• No "to" names on the cards or envelopes

• You have to open them when you get home

I can't remember the mailbox sitch. I know I never made a unicorn or gumball machine. I know I would have stayed up late to do it.

I wish I could hug every kid dreading going to class tomorrow with their paper bag to collect Valentine cards. I wish their school and class and teachers were a safe, supportive, and soft place. I wish they were learning that there are adults who understand and are looking out for them.

Instead, they are learning a lesson they have learned many times before: they are poor, awkward, and weird. Ironically on Valentine's Day, that they are unloved.

A few will use that as fuel to drive themselves to succeed. A few will become so impacted they'll devolve into behaviors that hurt themselves and others. A lucky few will embrace their outsider status and fly their freak flags high.

Most will move on and create good enough lives with the low-grade hum of shame as a constant companion.

Know someone who would get something out of that story? Please share.