From when I was a little girl until I went to college, every Valentine’s Day, I would find a small gift and a card from my parents (or really, my mom) waiting for me at my spot on the kitchen table. Even after I moved out, first to go to college and then into my own apartment, I always knew that as February 14th approached, I could expect an envelope — usually red or pink — in the mail, containing a cheesy if sweet card, promising me that for my parents, I would always be their Valentine.
Despite the dependable hearts and teddy bears, however, I did not grow up in a house where there was an emphasis on love stories and fairy tales. My second wave feminist mother worked full time in high-powered jobs throughout my entire childhood, and if there was cooking to be done, we knew that the person to turn to was my father. Even the story of my parent’s engagement was not exactly the stuff of great romance. Instead of shiny diamonds and sweet smelling roses, my father proposed to my mother in a desperate attempt to get her to stop crying over her perceived lack of job prospects. So while I certainly spent my fair share of time dressing up as a bride or a princess, I don’t remember ever dreaming of my wedding, or hoping that a prince would come sweep me off my feet. Instead, I was going to be a strong, independent woman who built a relationship with a true partner. Love at first sight was nothing but a fantasy.
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