Shithead-Day: Pure Romance!

“Experts on romance say for a happy marriage there has to be more than a passionate love. For a lasting union, they insist, there must be a genuine liking for each other. Which, in my book, is a good definition for friendship.”

~ Marilyn Monroe

It’s Valentine’s Day. The husband and I had the agreement to not make a big deal out of it. Actually, we had the deal to make nothing out of it. We are not really romantic in the traditional kind of way. I got a potted flower three days before Valentine’s Day “because it was near the counter”. And when I asked the husband what kind of flower it was he answered: “I don’t know, something pink, I guess. I took the one where almost all buds are still closed, so…”

And that’s all.

Now, on the actual Valentine’s Day, we had a really greasy and cheesy vegetarian pasta bake and a fresh salad – which the son didn’t even look at.

After that, we all slouched on the couch. And that’s where we stayed. Where we still are.

The husband and I are playing a video game. The son is watching. We are all muffled up under the same blanked. Suddenly the son addresses me.

“Shithead.”, he says and smiles.

“Excuse me?!”, I answer, still staring at my video game character (a tiny Lego figure – the husband and I are totally into the Lego video games!).

“Shithead.”, the son replies calm and in a soft voice.

I’m a bit confused and look at the husband. The husband shrugs.

“Where have you heard that word?”, I ask the son, now giving him my full attention.

I suspect his new friends from kindergarten. The son answers:

“Daddy called me that.”

I gasp and look at the husband. He appears to be innocently surprised by that answer.

“Never.”, he manages to whisper.

“Now, sweetie, tell me the truth. Who taught you that word?”


“I swear I didn’t.”, the husband declares convincingly.

“Honey, where did you hear that word?”, I ask again.

“Here.”, the son answers and points at his ear.

Well… yeah, sure.

“Shithead.”, the son states again, without, so it seems, meaning anyone in particular.

The way he pronounces the word somehow sounds sweet and soft. More like a pet name instead of a swearword.

“Shithead.”, he repeats, kisses my forehead and leaves the couch to play in his play corner in the living room.

“Shithead.”, I echo, kissing the husband on the forehead.

“Bunch of shitheads.”, the husband smiles, proudly glances at his son and hugs me tightly.

Then we continue playing Lego.


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