Today is Valentine's Day. A day of sweetness, of candy. I'm surprised the girls are able to go to bed after the sugar they've consumed. Per tradition, my husband and I are making cheese fondue. He will shave the cheese and I will cut things into tiny cubes - bread, apples, sausage, and more. And then we will sit together and eat it. We will eat too much of it and complain that we are painfully full and then we will dip into the massive cupcakes I bought. Yum.
I want wine tonight. I do. I think it would taste good. I think it would add to the celebration. I think I also want it because I have some memories tied up with this red and pink holiday. Six years ago, I thought I was pregnant. I had miscarried months before which was nothing short of devastating and we were trying again, eager to conceive our first child. The day before I had gotten a faint positive test. I went to the doctor for a blood test. My doctor called and said my hormone levels were impossibly low and that I would probably get my period any time.
And I did. I Googled what had happened and found the term chemical pregnancy. If I had never taken that test, I wouldn't have known. I would have just thought my period was late. This happens to many people. And yet I knew. I knew and I drank oodles of white wine to cope. And ate oodles of candy, too. I remember feeling so sick. And sad.
Memories are hard. And historically I've used wine to mute them. No more. Not this year.
I've got some bread to chop now.