St Valentine and the Bear


“What are you getting the girlfriend for Valentine’s?” I asked Son (almost aged 15) about a week ago.

“We broke up,” he grunted in my direction.

The relief flooding through me was a real thing. I thought, “Whew, I can just let it go and won’t have to spend any cash.”


Sunday morning: “Mom, I need a bear.”


“A bear.”



“But didn’t you just break up? Surely you can’t have a new girlfriend already?”

Deep sigh, “Mom, you don’t have to have a girlfriend for Valentine’s Day.”

“Well, who is it?”




Clearly this conversation was going nowhere. We get in the car and off we go. I’m thinking this will be easy.


“What type of bear do you want?”

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Do you want a jointed teddy bear, a collectible bear, a big bear, a small bear…”

“Just a bear.”


Over the next three and half hours I witnessed firsthand the rejection of every single teddy bear in the greater city area.

It seems that a Millennial trait is the utter lack of ability to make decision on one’s own.

Each prospective bear had to be photographed and WhatsApped to two other girls for approval before a decision could be made. At an average 20 minute turn around sands were falling through the hourglass at the speed of light.

You cannot imagine my joy when, at long last, a bear was chosen.

The Chosen Bear.

The Bear.

The Bear to end all bears.

A bright red bear in a mini skirt.

Finally, on our way home, bear in tow, I allowed myself to think wistfully about a glass of red wine to decompress.

“And Mom.”


“I also need a bunch of red roses. Real ones.”


So, I went home and had two glasses of wine.





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