By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
The last few weeks of writing, I have been a bit more philosophical—if that is the proper adjective. That may be generous. I can’t rightly claim to have thrust upon you anything resembling philosophy. The term suggests profound wisdom, and since I know myself, I doubt that very seriously. Still, the last few pieces have been less tales and more telling, if that makes sense.
Today, I return to story.
What follows is lighter fare than recent offerings. I never claimed to be a great chasm of depth. No, today we take a small foray into my family life—complete with a touch of intrigue.
Valentine’s Day has just passed. For some, it is quite the occasion. For others, perhaps a modest treat. For a few, nothing at all. I will spare you the customary speech about showing love year-round. I fall into the category of people who are pleased and appreciative if something happens, but entirely content if it does not. And I certainly cannot fathom battling the masses for an overpriced dinner reservation. I would likely veto such a proposal myself. The sentiment? Lovely. The execution? No thank you.
But this story is not about me.
It is about my daughter—currently nine, racing toward ten—who made this Valentine’s Day unexpectedly memorable.
Last year, in third grade, she casually mentioned having a crush on a boy. I thought little of it. Children have crushes the way they have favorite colors: earnestly and without consequence. She seemed perfectly content simply to like him. There was no grand plan, no dramatic arc. And so her crush sat there—pleasant and uneventful.
Until this year.
While preparing valentines to exchange with her classmates, she informed me she would like to send an extra one to the object of her affection, who happens to be in another class. I was mildly surprised. First, that the interest had endured. Second, that she possessed the boldness to act on it. I assure you she did not inherit that particular trait from me.
Nevertheless, I obliged. We secured the valentine.
Charming, yes. But here is where the plot thickens.
A few days before the school celebration, I received a random friend request on social media. The person was local, and as an officer in our parent-teacher organization, I assumed it was someone connected to the school.
I was correct.
It was the mother of the boy.
She reached out because she had learned that her son apparently returned my daughter’s interest. He wished to give her a valentine and she, being a responsible parent, wanted to check with us first.
I may or may not have gasped.
The crush was mutual.
How utterly adorable. A fourth-grade love story unfolding under my very nose.
And while the sweetness of a first childhood sweetheart made me smile, something heavier settled in. This—this—is how it begins. Today, “boyfriend” means a child you occasionally speak to on the playground. But this feels like ground zero. The faint tremor before the seismic teen years. The complicated emotions. The massive heartbreaks. I was not mentally prepared for this.
I am not ready.
Her father is coping by attempting to ignore the entire situation under the hopeful theory that if he does not acknowledge it, it will quietly dissolve. I wish him luck with that strategy.
It is remarkable how the minimal exchange between two nine-year-olds—endearingly called a “relationship” (and I assure you, that is not my terminology)—can propel you decades into the future in an instant. All its beautiful possibilities. All its abject terrors.
Perhaps this is melodramatic, but it feels like the faintest whisper of the end of childhood. I knew it was coming. Children grow up. That is the arrangement. I simply did not expect to feel it quite so soon.
This Valentine’s Day took a turn.
I am unsure whether to call it exciting or frightening—or some strange blend of both.
Personally, I think I would prefer chocolate.
Prose and Possibilities 