"You're someone who I'm going to love for a long, long time," says a little person clad in footie pajamas, as he pads into my dark bedroom and curls up in bed next to me. "I love you too, sweetie," I say, putting my arm around his small torso and wondering if my husband has sent him in with a scripted conversation.
"I'm going to miss you when I grow up and move away," he says.
"I'll miss you too, sweetie. But you'll come to visit, right?" I ask.
"Yes, and I'll bring my children to visit you, Mommy." He says.
"Good," I say, drifting back to sleep. It's still early, I'm still tired, and I can barely stay awake, but I'm trying to memorize what he says so I can write it down later. By now I'm pretty sure this is a spontaneous conversation, not a proscribed Valentine's Day one. My husband is downstairs, awake, reading the paper, eating cereal, being the early riser of the family, and my five-year-old valentine is in bed with me telling me how much he loves me because that's just the way he is. Lucky me.