That Valentine's Day, our hearts were full

It was the simplest and perhaps truest form of love.

A memorable Valentine's Day was chaperoning my son, who was only 9 years old, when he went out with a girl he called his friend.

You can't get much more stereotypical than this: pizza and soda for dinner (just ice water for mom and dad who are watching their weight), and then a drive over to the ice cream shop for a scoop of anything but vanilla (low-cal frozen yogurt for the chaperones).

The little girl was quiet, her voice barely above a whisper when she talked to us. (Of course, they had chatted up a storm in the car.)

"What pizza topping do you want, hon?"

Whisper whisper whisper.

"I'm sorry, hon, which one do you want?"

We caught it this time.

"Pepperoni."

Her gentleman friend ordered the same pizza topping and soda before they scurried off to play on the video machine. That was a reassuring feeling, handing over $2 worth of quarters to the pair. At least that was still fun to do at this age.

My heart ached and laughed during the evening. In barely four months, my little boy would reach that hallmark of 10. He was sensitive yet caring, quiet yet the socialite, polite yet still a child. He was the blend of our hopes and dreams, and we knew the toughest days were still ahead.

The baby cheeks were long gone, replaced by a handsome young profile and just one dimple when he smiled. His glasses accentuated his vibrant eyes instead of masking them. His eyes were like mine, brighter green in the morning and a more tired shade as the day wore on. His father could always tell when we were tired, just by looking at the color chart in our eyes.

Our son had both of our curly eyelashes that his grandmothers envied. His pudgy little nose was a duplicate of mine, but the mouth was his father's, most often racing in the open gear. Except this night.

His voice was low and quiet, rid of the argumentative tone from the day before, but one I knew I'd hear again. His words were carefully chosen, nurtured, convincing. It was amazing what charm one little lady had over one little man, my little boy.

Then I studied this young lady who had spellbound him. She was quite pretty, dark eyes, a smooth thin face, three inches taller than her escort. But she was a year older.

Yes, my little boy had fallen for an older woman. He was quite taken by her. Notes from her were taped to his bedroom door. Her picture had a prominent spot in a small frame next to his bed. But if you called her his girlfriend, he quickly corrected you.

"She's a friend who's a girl."

Some of the kids teased him mercilessly about his “girlfriend.” It was painful, but I told him to ignore them. If she was just a friend, fine, then be friends and ignore what those other knuckleheads have to say. Of course, that's easier for a mother to say since it had been 23 years since she was that age.

I don't remember much about when I was nine or 10. I was too busy playing softball and basketball with the boys on the playground to pay much attention to nature’s gift or curse of puppy love. I could spar with the best of them throughout grade school and only gave it up in junior high because recess wasn't part of the curriculum.

But all my schooling had not prepared me for a night like this.

The simple act of liking someone was in its purest form this night. The deep-rooted feelings of love are wrapped up in innocence, before it becomes complicated and fragile. But at this age, it is in a delicate state, and warm fuzzies mean a lot. And the fear of rejection starts early.

What I was experiencing watching my young man in action put my feelings in a whole new dimension.

My baby was growing up. He was like a little man. And while I panicked inside of the prospects of him growing up, deeper inside me I felt a sense of relief, of comfort. He was well-mannered, considerate, fun-loving, a listener, a talker, a truly caring human being. Somehow it made me feel stronger and self-confident, that I was doing OK as a parent, as a human being.

It warmed my heart and made me chuckle as my husband and I walked behind them when we left the ice cream shop. They held hands as we walked in the darkness illuminated by the street lights and moonlight.

As we took her home, my son put his hand on his companion's back as if to protect her as he walked her to the door. He gave her a hug, and she thanked me before closing the door. It was short, sweet, nothing elaborate.

The night was a whirlwind that started with a discussion of homework and ended with a hug. As we drove home, we didn't say much. As my son and I unlocked the front door, he looked up at me beneath the floppy hood and orange stocking cap and said, "I hugged her, Mom."

"I know, honey," I said, as I drew him to me and felt the warmest I ever had in the February wind and rain.

"C'mon, mom," he said inside, leaving a trail of winter clothing behind him. "Let's sort through the Valentine's candy."

That Valentine's Day, our hearts were full.