Is there any holiday more unbearable than Valentine’s Day? I’ve felt this way since elementary school, long before I realized that as a mother, I’d be expected to wake up early, whip up a love-themed breakfast for my kids, and ensure all their classmates received special treats and playful messages from “us.” Imagine me, completely unamused.
My disdain for Valentine’s Day began when I was a 10-year-old tomboy sporting a mullet and receiving zero attention from potential crushes. I took one look at the love notes and chalky candy hearts and thought… nope, not for me. There was no way I’d give a card requesting affection to the same boys who never asked me to couple skate at the roller rink.
Even when I eventually had a crush reciprocate my feelings, my opinion didn’t change. During my senior year of high school, I wore a black armband on Valentine’s Day, even though nobody had passed away, and I had a perfectly nice boyfriend who was nothing like my rebellious self. Unfortunately, I accidentally wore a pink polo shirt under the armband, proving I was both a terrible girlfriend and a bit of a fool. Still, my protest continued.
College didn’t change my view either. One year, I dissected a shark and gave my boyfriend the heart preserved in a glass vial filled with formalin solution. He kept it in his car until the embalming fluid inevitably spilled in his cup holder. Later, I became a marine biologist, and while my analytical side serves me well, it struggles with the unrealistic expectations of sentimental gestures.
As an adult, the absurdity of Valentine’s Day makes even less sense. For starters, February is hardly a romantic month. It’s cold—definitely not ideal for shedding layers. Plus, I’m at my least attractive during this time: pale, hairy-legged, and bundled in oversized sweatshirts and leggings. The pressure to be intimate on this one random day feels childish. Well, I guess we must get cozy today because a cherubic baby in diapers deemed it so.
I also can’t embrace the aesthetic of Valentine’s Day with its cliché decorations. A quick online search reveals the holiday’s kinkier origins—a pagan fertility feast with matchmaking games. Essentially, you tossed your name into a jar and went home with a stranger, much like an ancient key party. Somehow, that evolved into the sugary, Victorian-style romance we celebrate today. The red hearts and lacey cards evoke an era when merely glimpsing an ankle could scandalize someone.
As a modern woman, I have no use for such frivolity. But let me tell you, presenting me with a teddy bear and some stale drugstore chocolates won’t increase your chances of getting in my good graces on Valentine’s Day. It’s time to innovate and normalize unique expressions of affection. We’re not in fifth grade anymore; you won’t impress me with sweets. How about, just for fun, a kimchi grilled cheese and a vibrator? Was that too much to ask?
The final straw for me regarding Valentine’s Day is the added pressure placed on mothers. Mid-February comes too soon after Christmas, when we’ve already done a ton of stuff. I can’t be expected to light up my family’s lives twice within 45 days. Ironically, going above and beyond with tasks nobody requested is my specialty. I’m committed to raising a couple of discerning foodies, so elaborate meals are common here—think homemade bao buns with pork braised in fermented chili paste, pickled shallots with Sichuan peppercorn, and julienned cucumbers dressed in rice vinegar and roasted peanuts. Sure, whatever you want, my dear children.
But heart-shaped pancakes? Ugh, that sounds draining. And I won’t be creating 25 treat bags and love notes for every kid in their classes. I’ve never done it, and I won’t start now. The societal expectation for childhood to be a constant stream of treats and special events is already sky-high.
If there’s a movement to set up Cupid traps, I will lose it. It’s perfectly fine if our deep love for our children doesn’t include the “mandatory” projects that society expects of us. A homemade spaghetti Bolognese on any day other than February 14 is a valentine too.
Chloe Anderson is a marine biologist and a less-than-stellar baker. She resides in New Bedford, Massachusetts, with her husband and their daughter and son. You can find her on Instagram @whalingcitycottage.
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Summary:
Valentine’s Day has always been a holiday I dread, from my childhood disdain for love notes to the pressure it places on mothers. The cold, unromantic month of February hardly seems suitable for celebrating love, and I find the day’s expectations juvenile and outdated. As a modern woman, I prefer unique expressions of affection over cliché gifts, and the added burden of crafting special treats for my kids’ classmates feels overwhelming. Instead of conforming to societal expectations, I believe love can be shown in everyday gestures—like a homemade dinner any day other than Valentine’s Day.
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