My daughter is obsessed with holidays.

She still plays “Christmas Eve” with her sister, wrapping up dolls and toys in scarves and placing them under a “tree” made of chairs.

Just when I’m grooving in my New Year’s rhythm, the stress of December firmly regulated to the past, I hear a delighted scream:  “Look, Santa’s sliding down the chimney!”

Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about Christmas again for another ten months.  But after a short breather, Valentine’s Day is suddenly upon us.  Ava decides she wants to make Valentines for a few special friends at preschool.

“Well, honey, you’ll need to make them for ALL the kids in your class– so no one feels left out,” I tell her.

I think this is an official school rule, as indeed it should be.  I remember childhood Valentine’s Days consumed with hope and disappointment.  We’d cover cardboard with red paper and glitter, creating personal letter-boxes for our anticipated torrent of mail.  By second grade, I understood that quantity of Valentines was a measure of popularity.

Our class ballerina, Natasha Price, found her mailbox overflowing with notes.  She coolly tucked her blonde braids behind her ears and placed the envelopes in her backpack, unopened.  I received only a generic Snoopy card from my best friend.  Instantly, I regretted the anonymous handmade heart I’d sent to my crush, Trevor Randolph.  Did he know it was from me?  Why had I been so stupid?

Back then, Valentine’s Day was a strategic game of anticipation and risk.  By high school, the Key Club Flower Fundraiser elevated the stakes to a new level.  For only $1, you could send a red, white, or pink carnation to the person of your choice, to be hand-delivered, very publicly, during class.  In hindsight, this tradition seems a cruel prank, something out of an Eighties clique movie like “The Breakfast Club.”

The carnation colors had unspoken but clear significance.  Everyone knew that Red meant Love, White meant Friendship, and Pink meant Passion.  The established, in-crowd couples sent each other red flowers, while girls exchanged platonic white stems with their pals.  I always longed for the thrill of an anonymous pink carnation, delivered during first period Algebra- and requiring transport through the concrete halls for the rest of the day.

From behind my locker door, I watched raven-haired Michelle Smith, the most popular girl in ninth grade, blushing and giggling with her sidekick, Tiffany.  They coyly compared their big bouquets like two brides.  Those lustful pink petals bloomed in the gloomy corridor like rose quartz in a mine.

Now that I’m a grown-up, Valentine’s Day is still tinged with exclusivity and longing.   It feels contrived, and offers yet another opportunity for mothering guilt.  I haven’t baked pink heart cookies for the preschool class or completed a haphazard card-making project with my girls.

A week ago, we managed a trip to the Dollar Store for doilies, ribbon, and glue-sticks.  I let go of my usual mess-aversion and let Carmen go wild with a pair of kid-scissors and some glue.  Blessedly, my girls haven’t inherited my perfectionist streak (yet).

Mothers may try hard to orchestrate the perfect holiday experience, but the truth is:  young children are content with very little.  I sat down and joined in the craft fun, working on a heart card for my own mom.  Harmony reigned until the Toddler Monster got bored and grabbed for her sister’s project.  Screaming and hair-pulling ensued, and I still haven’t finished my card.

Part of me wants to dismiss Valentine’s as a Hallmark holiday for young lovers.   Originally named after an early Christian martyr, St. Valentine’s Day became associated with courtly love during the Middle Ages and the life of the poet Chaucer.  Today it’s evolved into the consumer focus of the dull month of February.

At worst, the holiday smacks of crass commercialization-a marketing push to buy more bad chocolate and cheesy cards (or to feel lousy about being alone).  At best, it’s an opportunity to shower affection on our loved ones–  especially the neglected spouses.

The cynic in me sneers at the clichéd trappings of Valentine’s Day-  the dozen sweetheart roses, the diamond necklace, the candlelit dinner.  But I can’t fool myself.  I’m a romantic at heart, and wouldn’t mind being swept off my feet Cinderella-style.

Lately I’ve been concerned about Ava’s new fascination with Disney princesses and the outdated gender messages they convey.  Do I want to start teaching my daughter (at age 4) that a woman’s true happiness and fulfillment come from a prince?  But then I recognize a similar impulse in myself.

“Why do you like princesses?” I ask Ava at bedtime.

“Because they’re pretty,” she replies.  “And magic”

To feel pretty and magic.  That’s what a married mom of two young children wants in the depths of a cold, recession-addled, Vermont winter.  No need for jewelry.  I’ll settle for a hot shower and a single pink carnation, symbol of passion.

Tags:   holiday · mothering guilt · pink carnations · princesses · romance · Valentine's Day1 Comment