Scary Mommy's Guide to Surviving the Holidays (13 page)

40

WHY DOES SANTA CLAUS HATE US?

by Nancy Friedman

M
y twins were eight when they asked me if Santa was an anti-Semite.

“
What?
No!” I said, carefully wrapping bacon around the pork loin I was preparing for Hanukkah dinner that night.

“If he's not an anti-Semite, why doesn't he come to visit us on Christmas?”

And there it was, the moment in every Jewish parent's life when they need to decide what to tell their kids about Santa Claus.

Being a Jew during Christmas is hard. We have Hanukkah, sure, but so what? We tell ourselves that we have eight days of presents, and Christians have only one, but we know the truth, and every year, we hear about how Santa Claus is coming to town . . . just not to our house.

When I was growing up, my older brother tried an original tactic—he made up an alternative to Santa Claus: Hanukkah Joe. Hanukkah Joe was fit, not fat. Hanukkah Joe traveled by
chopped liver–fueled flying car. Hanukkah Joe came in the front door so he wouldn't get soot on his bespoke three-piece suit.

I may have been five to my brother's fourteen, but I didn't buy it. If Hanukkah Joe was real, why didn't anyone have a light-up Hanukkah Joe on their front lawn? Why weren't there any songs about him? And what about that flying car? When my grandmother put out chopped liver during the pre-Seder cocktail hour, it disappeared way faster than the cocktails. There was no way Hanukkah Joe was getting ahold of enough of it to fuel a flying Buick. (Hanukkah Joe would never drive a German car.)

So I knew Hanukkah Joe wasn't going to cut it with my kids, either. I mean, these were kids who had asked me if the Jews rapped when they lived in the ghetto. Kids who marveled, at only four, at the great coincidence of everyone they knew being born on their birthdays. They were thinkers, these two.

“Santa doesn't come to our house because we celebrate Hanukkah, and he only visits people who celebrate Christmas,” I answered, setting a challah on the table next to the menorah and the shrimp cocktail.

“So why don't we celebrate Christmas,” my daughter asked, “
instead
of Hanukkah?”

“Well, Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Jesus. And Jews don't believe in Jesus, so we don't celebrate his birthday.”

“But if Christmas has to do with Jesus and his birthday, what does Santa Claus have to do with it?”

She had me there. My knowledge of the origins of Santa Claus were exclusively derived from the Rankin/Bass Claymation special
Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town.

“Well, you see, Burgermeister MeisterBurger tripped one
day . . .” I began.

“Oh, I get it!” said my son. “Santa Claus is just made-up, like God.”

And there it was. The moment in every secular Jewish parent's life where they wonder if maybe, just maybe, they've taken things a bit too far.

41

THE DOS AND DON'TS OF CHRISTMAS WITH KIDS

by Toni Hammer

H
olidays are hard with kids. Well,
any
day is hard with kids. But holidays are “special” days where you want your kids to be on their best behavior, mind their manners, and earn their “Mommy Loves Me Best” shirts. Here's a handy guide of some dos and don'ts to help give you a scream-free Christmas.

Do dress the kid up in a cute outfit. There will be pictures. A LOT of pictures. If
you
don't dress the kid up, there's a good chance Aunt Sally will magically have “the most adorable” outfit for your baby, which will inevitably require three adults and a Cirque du Soleil performer to put on. Just dress the kid at home.

Don't keep your baby in that same outfit when it's time to eat. They will destroy it. That's what babies do to nice things.

Do give your baby new and different foods. This is probably the only time of year they're going to have cranberry sauce or sausage, sage, and walnut dressing on their tray. In 365 days,
when they're a full-fledged toddler, they won't be going anywhere near that stuff.

Don't plop a steaming pile of mashed potatoes onto your eight-month-old's high chair tray. Your in-laws will swoop in to save your child, tell you how awful you are for giving him food that's way too hot, and the whole time your kid will be screaming, “Give me back my taters!” in baby talk.

Do hand off your kid to any and every family member that wants to hold them. Take a break, Mama!

Don't pass your kid to your sister-in-law and run to the local bar for a shot, a beer, and a couple karaoke renditions of “Christmas Shoes.” You'll make it through the day. I promise.

Do let your kids help prepare the meal. Younger children will love feeling like a “big kid” when they get to put rolls on a baking sheet or pour chicken broth into the stuffing.

Don't let your kids set the table. Remember Aunt Sally? She has spent the past three months pinning every table setting she could find and you do not want your kid to be the one that demolishes her perfectly folded origami Christmas tree napkins, which she's been working on since Halloween.

Do teach your toddler Christmas carols to sing with everyone. Few things are as cute as a kid singing “Jingle Bells.” Especially after a few screwdrivers.

Don't let your kid sing “Let It Go.” It is not a Christmas song just because there's snow, and we're all tired of it the stupid thing. Dear Santa, make it stop.

Do let your baby help open presents. Ripping wrapping paper asunder is one of life's great joys to a baby. It's practice for wrecking your house.

Don't use wrapping paper smattered with glitter. Eating wrapping paper is also one of life's great joys to a baby, and you really don't wanna change a diaper that sparkles.

Do pack up the car with all the new gifts shortly after they're opened. It's one less thing to worry about, and it's the last few hours of sanity for you, because, once you get home, it'll look like Toys “R” Us had a drunken frat party the night before.

Don't forget your kid's new toy that lights up, blares music, shakes, rattles, and rolls at Aunt Sally's. Your kid will scream for days that it's their favorite and you're an awful mom for forgetting it, and Aunt Sally will have already packed it away for next year. That's what happens when your kid cuts down the napkin Christmas trees.

42

STOP CUSSING, IT'S FUCKING CHRISTMAS!

by Harmony Hobbs

T
he holidays are meant to be a time to gather, sip cozy beverages, and wax nostalgic, right? At least that is what I used to picture when I thought about the holiday season. The scene in my head looked a lot like a J.Crew family that stepped into a Pottery Barn catalog: well-mannered crispness wrapped in merino wool.

Then I became a mom, and my idea of the perfect holiday was shot to shit.

Our holiday reality looks a lot like me slowly turning into Linda Blair's character from
The Exorcist
between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Even though I WANT to enjoy the season, I am also a mom (meaning I have to deal with presents and wrapping and extra errands and extra food preparation, class parties, and remembering to do things no one else will do), a wife (meaning I would like to look somewhat attractive while doing all of the above, or at least remember to shower), and an overachiever
(meaning that even if I manage to do ALL OF THAT, I still feel like I should or could have done more.).

That's a whole lot for one person to handle without leaning heavily on the bottle.

The pressure we put on ourselves to create the perfect holiday experience for our families is just too much, and I predict if we continue to run ourselves ragged standing in Black Friday lines and stressing over things that don't matter, we're going to snap. Just like Mrs. Rose.

My friend's mother lived her life in a perfectly composed manner, until one Christmas when her oldest daughter was home from college. She had worked very hard to make the house just right, as she did every year. While her three kids were in the living room being brats to one another, she was in the kitchen cooking their holiday meal with a head full of motherly worries, like how they were going to pay tuition that semester. One of the kids slipped up and cursed within earshot, and before they knew what was happening, Mrs. Rose came barreling out of the kitchen and yelled:

“STOP CUSSING!!! IT'S FUCKING CHRISTMAS!!!”

Fucking Christmas, indeed.

My fellow maxed-out moms, it's time to simplify. Our children can survive and even manage to be happy without an Elf on the Shelf. The pets will not piss the floor if they don't get a gift on Christmas Day. Your family will be satisfied with the mindful gifts you purchase that are within your budget. The holidays do not have to be perfect in what we create of them . . . the holidays just are. And because I need to be reminded of this probably more than anyone else (see above reference to merino wool), I
have written something called The Low Expectations Manifesto.

I will start my holiday right—with a triple espresso or shot of alcohol or whatever crutch that will get me through the day in a good mood.

I will make a budget and stick to it. Children who are already drowning in toys do not need more shit, and adults who are drowning in bills do not need more debt.

I will remember that ungrateful asshole parents produce ungrateful asshole kids. I will not be an asshole on the road or in the stores, because nothing the mall has for sale is worth acting crazy for.

I will remember it's the thought that counts, and hope others will too—but even if they don't, I WILL NOT BE AN ASSHOLE.

I will make time for the traditions that matter to me and to my immediate family. I will not overcomplicate my life by trying to keep up with what the other parents on my Facebook news feed are doing.

I will let the little things go . . . or drink more . . . or a combination of both.

And finally, I'll try to watch my language—after all, it's fucking Christmas!

43

THE BIG LIE

by Jessica Mayer

W
ell, it's that time of year.

Time for peppermint mochas, ubiquitous silver tinsel, and . . .

The Big Lie.

You know, that Big Lie that all Jews tell their kids?

The one about how much BETTER Hanukkah is than Christmas?

Now that my kids are getting older, the Big Lie has gotten more elaborate. Had to. I mean, when they were little it was a matter of simple math: eight nights is better than one. You could even draw it out for them on paper: 8 > 1! End of story! We win!

But now that my kids are well rooted in the age of reason, the Big Lie needs more legs. I mean, how the HELL else does one compete with:

1.
 The act of bringing a TREE out of nature and into one's LIVING ROOM, and then turning it into a seven-foot-tall arts-and-
crafts project in which the entire family can participate, and then adorning it with an absolutely OBSCENE AMOUNT OF GIFTS?

2.
 A seemingly endless songbook of holiday tunes, varying from upbeat to nostalgic, that are actually—wait for it—fun to sing?

3.
 Concurrently airing television specials, cartoons, movies, all of which feature beloved American icons and extol this king of holidays?

4.
 A twig that hangs from the ceiling and momentarily transforms friends into lovers because no mere mortal can resist its smooch-inducing charms?

And, of course . . .

5.
 The biggest Big Lie of all time: THE OLD GUY WHO JETS AROUND EARTH WITH HIS FLYING DEER POSSE, DELIVERING FREE PRESENTS TO WELL-BEHAVED CHILDREN THROUGH THEIR CHIMNEYS. Even the skinny metal chimneys. And the no-longer-functioning ones. And the ones that don't end in fireplaces but are just decorative. You know, now that I think about it, you actually don't even really need a chimney. He'll find you anyway. And give you stuff.

The guy who came up with this Santa bit must have REEEALLY hated Jews. I can just picture him now: there he is, huddled over a piece of parchment, sketching out the details of this indomitable character, and chuckling to himself over all the misery he was about to unleash upon the non-Christian population once he unveiled this bearded purveyor of ho-ho-hos upon the world. Well, screw you, dude! That is playing so dirty! And don't think we Jews didn't notice: SANTA HAS, LIKE, NOTHING TO
DO WITH JESUS CHRIST. OR HIS BIRTHDAY. You must think we're dumb.

It even occurred to me once that I should try to invoke some anti-Santa for my kids; some much more magical character that would bring Santa to his velveteen-enveloped knees:

“Hey kids! I'm going to tell you the story of Helga the Hanukkah Heroine! She's the absolute BEST! Wanna know why? Because you don't even have to be good for her to come visit you! In fact, her operation is not even remotely merit-based! All you have to do is not have a Christmas tree in your house, and you immediately get on her approved list.

“What's the benefit of being on Helga's list, you ask? Well, her powers absolutely dwarf those of that crappy old Santa Claus guy. For one: she's not in her eighties. She's spry as hell and will be around long after Ol' Saint Nick bites the big one.

“And two: she's everywhere, ALL the time. Santa Claus only works on one night, and then he loafs around for an entire year. Helga? This bitch never takes a day off! She's constantly zooming around, rewarding Jewish kids for any reason or no reason. Find $5 in your gym bag? Thank you, Helga! Got an A on that test you didn't quite study enough for? Helga's got your back! Stayed up past midnight playing video games and your parents didn't catch you? Helga, you are one sneaky little partner in crime! See? She's always in our midst, making life better for only the Jewish people. How else do you think the Jews got to run Hollywood AND Wall Street? Helga hooked their asses UP!”

But then I thought better of it, because this story MIGHT have approached the line of irresponsible parenting (but definitely did not cross it).

So what do I do instead? Each year I just elaborate on the existing Big Lie. I tell my kids that Hanukkah is better because it allows us to savor each gift instead of steamrolling through the experience. That our holiday is superior because occasionally it comes a whole month before Christmas, meaning we get to enjoy our presents for WAY longer. And that dreidels are like state-sanctioned gambling for kids, and since we play for $100 bills around here, we can just go shop our Christmas envy away. Tomorrow, when everything is on sale.

And when they get too old, and this no longer works?

I will tell them they're right—they've always been right: Hanukkah blows, Christmas rules, and even though it's painful now, it builds character and bonds Jews and gives us something fun to kvetch about.

Which is what we Jews love most.

Hey, look at that, kids! We win. Again!