I'm pretty sure you don't need a man if you've got these shoes on Valentine's Day

This much is clear: You don't need a man. You may want a partner to join you on this amazing and erratic journey. You may enjoy the sound of someone laughing uncontrollably at something off-handed and clever and quippy you threw out there without even thinking it up beforehand and then masterfully placing into the conversation. You may be compelled to have conversation that doesn't involve any words that involve bathroom activity or an evening out that doesn't require transporting a baggie of crayons and miniature Matchbox cars or Polly Pocket whatevers in your clutch. You may feel the overwhelming urge to get yourself some loving that doesn't require a trip to the battery aisle at Walgreen's. You may want to share an inside joke, a bottle of wine, a bucket of greasy popcorn, a laugh at the expense of some skinny-jeaned kid in the next aisle over. But you do not need a man.

And it is always best, I believe, to make these choices clear, especially when there is a very good possibility you will be ordering in a bucket of Lad Nar and painting your own toenails on a night when other people might be having an extraordinarily overpriced dinner out at a restaurant that...mehhhh, you've been to already and is great and everything but there's no need to have a single long-stemmed rose and a champagne toast and a velvet-trimmed card to feel loved and fine and happy and gooby anyway.

[Pura Lopez Peep Toe Pump]

So if you know you don't need a man or if there isn't a partner in the picture to nervously ask if you have plans on Valentine's Day (or hell, both), then perhaps it is a good idea to center on the things that maybe feel a bit more necessary. Even if they don't laugh or hold the door although you are an empowered feminist woman, thank you very much.

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Ease up on the analysis, people, they're just kiddie drawings

I choose to believe that the Y that looks strangely like a pitchfork is just Lil E's artistic expression. In fact, he told me, "It's because I like fancy, MOMMY!" and so we're going to go with that.

I also choose to believe that these "bad guy aliens with pirate swords" are just that, and not some mirror of the Yelly Mommy face I may or may not get at 8:27 every morning when WE REALLY NEED TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE THIS MINUTE SO HIKE UP THOSE DIEGO PANTIES, GRAB YOUR STUFFED PENGUIN AND GET THAT TINY TUSH IN GEAR!

I also choose to believe those are LEGS on the lady alien pirate with the sword and one bug-eye.

And finally, in this picture he actually said was me with a baby that I do look a bit saintly, save the single furled eyebrow and round belly thing over the tweezer leg. The baby looks happy, though, right?

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And then the testosterone hit like a tsunami

It's no secret my child is one 3T t-shirt away from being a full-on metrosexual. He cringes if I call him fancy and is quick to correct with a "No, Mommy. I'm COOL."  And how could I mistake the preschooler holding his hand daintily up so my turquoise beaded bracelet doesn't fall off for anything else but cool? Inevitably the conversation goes:

"Oh, sorry," I apologize with a smile. "You're right. You are totally hip. You're preschool hip. You're a prip."

"Huh?"

"I know. Sorry again."

Despite the resistance, he's a small boy living under the influence of a mommy who, as he describes "likes the make-ups and sparkly stuff and pink and...OH! and SHOOOOOES!"

"That's right, darling," I say, thinking all the while that resistance is futile.

But really, truly, I want him to be who he is. And, of course, we all say that until we see our children being who they really are, which equates to a monkey diving off of someone's $6,000 leather sofa or talking loudly about a boog  stuck up in their nose at Whole Foods or in a tantrum puddle in perfect timing to some declaration to another playgroup mommy about how we really do have it pretty much together these days. When it comes to fancy or not, I am good with whomever this boy is and it really does delight  me to see his passion for head scarves and plastic power tools ebb and flow.

This weekend, though, there was not a drop of fancy in whatever room he was tearing through. First, there was the incessant discussion of Star Wars. There were movie scenes to recount and trivia to announce and characters to dissect -- all of it based on hearsay from his older, wiser, very in-the-know  5-year old friends at school and questions he's asked his dad.  He had a lot of questions, and then resulting frustration for me, since most of my knowledge of Star Wars centers on kissing a Luke Skywalker trading card with my friend Lizzie.

Lil E shows off his homemade foamie Darkthhhh Maul mask and light saber. No glitter. This time.

I gave in and played with light sabers made from clothes hangers and tried to follow complex storylines involving "DARKthhhhhh Vader" and pretended to be Princess Leah running through the snow for what seemed like a feature length trip to the park.

But it all ramped up when, exhausted from our day of storm trooping, he asked if we could watch the Super Bowl.

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