Regina’s Writings: Why I Hate Valentine’s Day

By M. Regina Cram

I hate Valentine’s Day. It’s a poor substitute for true romance, and it lulls us into ignoring the other 364 days of the year when romance really counts.
On February 14, all paired adults are compelled to express their heartfelt love to their beloved, whether they feel like it or not. In other words, Valentine’s Day isn’t romance; it’s coercion.

I don’t want my beloved to profess his love for me simply because FTD and Hallmark cards mandate it. I want him to call me in the middle of the day because he can’t stop thinking about me. I prefer flowers on some nondescript Tuesday in October because he can’t live without me, rather than on February 14 because he’ll be in big trouble if he doesn’t. And I cherish the quiet tenderness of a family man full of everyday romance rather than obligatory flowers that fulfill the romance quota for another year.

When we got engaged, my husband and I planned the perfect marriage, full of romance, adventure, and mystery.

Then came children, filling our lives with nursery rhymes, carpool schedules, and a 6-year-old who began talking at 6:25 a.m. and did not stop until her stuffed monkey hit the pillow at night. The only mystery we’ve had recently was finding the missing remote control in the sofa cushions, hardly the stuff of starry nights and romantic interludes.

And yet romance remains an essential part of our lives. Everyday romance is deeper than the flowers-and-chocolate variety. It’s a romance that spills over into ordinary days and sleepless nights. I see it when a man stuffs a juicy love note in his wife’s briefcase, and long-married couples hold hands as they stroll down the street. It’s a romance that whispers sweet nothings between the meatloaf recipe and the soccer game, a romance that is still vibrant in the sunset years.

My perspective on romance was reinforced years ago when a childbirth emergency brought me to the precipice of death. The maternity nurses still talk about my husband Peter singing to our newborn in a special room reserved for tragedies. “The Daddy sings while the Mama dies,” he kept hearing in hospital corridors. Later, he kept a vigil in the Intensive Care Unit, taping pictures of the baby to my hospital bed so I could see her face in the unlikely event that I woke up.

After I was out of danger, Peter called me in the hospital one afternoon. His voice was heavy with stress and fatigue, so I encouraged him to do something for himself that evening rather than visit me. I could hear his voice crack on the other end of the phone. “Regina,” he choked, “I almost lost you. Visiting you is doing something for myself.”

That evening, we sat together on my hospital bed and talked. We held hands, and we shared my lime green Jell-O. That date in my hospital room was more romantic than any Hallmark Valentine will ever be.

M. Regina Cram is a published author and parishioner of SS. Isidore and Maria Parish.