Read Online Scary Mommy's Guide to Surviving the Holidays by Jill Smokler - Free Book Online
Authors: Jill Smokler
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the judging, shaming baby has to share his light with plastic, glowing baby Jesus. Itâs a time of giving, after all, isnât it?
We pass another house and can see the trampoline in the backyard. It is the size of our garage, and it is surrounded by lights. I remember the first time I knew that people could own trampolines that size. I was babysitting for a new familyâa referral in a neighboring town. The mom gave me a tour of the house and when we ended up back in the living room, she showed me a framed family portrait. All four members of the dimpled, blond-haired, blue-eyed family, wearing canary-yellow sweaters on top of khaki pants, jumping and laughing on the family trampoline. She told me that they all love to jump on it all the time. They just loved the outdoors and all things athletic and sporty. At the age of fourteen, I understood how very different I was, and I understood what it meant to be gentile.
âWhat is Christmas?â my kid asks on our walk to the bus as a veiled way of finding out why we donât have lights or reindeer or a bedazzled trampoline.
I see the Christmas explanation options in front of me, ranging from superficially vague to historical overshare. The issue with superficially vague is that if I donât provide a good explanation about why we have the darkest, dullest house in all the land, then he will surely grow up to become a resentful, self-hating Jew who marries a Seventh-day Adventist just to spite me.
I tell him about this Jewish man who became the leader ofanother religion. I tell him he was born on December 25 (that date being the subject of much debate, but I skip that part) and I tell him that people celebrate his birthday on that dayâwhich is Christmas. Then I tell him there are lots of religions, and I start to ramble on about how wonderful it is that we can all believe different things and celebrate different holidays and I realize Iâve lost him to the candy canes on the window of the next house and probably to his future Seventh-day Adventist spouse.
âI wish we had lights,â he confesses.
âBut who has it better than we do?â I say. âOur neighbors across the street canât even see their lights from their house. They have to walk outside to see their own lights. We can look at their decorations from our house whenever we want! We donât even have to go outside!â
âI donât like the people,â he says, meaning the glowing plastic Jewish couple with their messiah baby. âBut I like all the lights,â he adds. âTheyâre like stars.â
I panic. Clearly, Christmas is winning. I mean, of course itâs winning. Lights on houses, sparkling Christmas trees set in the middle of a Christmas present moat, some jolly old man taking requests without actually considering if youâve been naughty or niceâall compared to a B-list Jewish consolation holiday.
On balance, Hanukkah sucks.
I add in a moment of panic: âYou know, Christmas only lasts one day, and youâll get EIGHT DAYS of presents for Hanukkah!â
He gives me a smile, and I know that Iâve scored points even if I scored off of a foul.
And then we are at the bus stop, and I kiss him good-bye.
He calls back to me from the top of the bus stop steps, âIcanât wait until EIGHT days of Hanukkah presents!!â And the little gentile children turn to him with envy in their clear, blue Whoville eyes.
25
KILLER ROCKY ROAD FUDGE
by Alisa Schindler
E very year on the holidays, my family, my extended family and even my husbandâs family all converge at my mother and stepfatherâs. I am thankful for us all to be together . . . and, equally so, that I donât have to cook.
The one thing Iâm responsible for is a dessert and somehow Iâve gained a reputation for having some sort of baking prowess, despite not being much of a baker at all. The secret? My rocky road fudge. It
We pass another house and can see the trampoline in the backyard. It is the size of our garage, and it is surrounded by lights. I remember the first time I knew that people could own trampolines that size. I was babysitting for a new familyâa referral in a neighboring town. The mom gave me a tour of the house and when we ended up back in the living room, she showed me a framed family portrait. All four members of the dimpled, blond-haired, blue-eyed family, wearing canary-yellow sweaters on top of khaki pants, jumping and laughing on the family trampoline. She told me that they all love to jump on it all the time. They just loved the outdoors and all things athletic and sporty. At the age of fourteen, I understood how very different I was, and I understood what it meant to be gentile.
âWhat is Christmas?â my kid asks on our walk to the bus as a veiled way of finding out why we donât have lights or reindeer or a bedazzled trampoline.
I see the Christmas explanation options in front of me, ranging from superficially vague to historical overshare. The issue with superficially vague is that if I donât provide a good explanation about why we have the darkest, dullest house in all the land, then he will surely grow up to become a resentful, self-hating Jew who marries a Seventh-day Adventist just to spite me.
I tell him about this Jewish man who became the leader ofanother religion. I tell him he was born on December 25 (that date being the subject of much debate, but I skip that part) and I tell him that people celebrate his birthday on that dayâwhich is Christmas. Then I tell him there are lots of religions, and I start to ramble on about how wonderful it is that we can all believe different things and celebrate different holidays and I realize Iâve lost him to the candy canes on the window of the next house and probably to his future Seventh-day Adventist spouse.
âI wish we had lights,â he confesses.
âBut who has it better than we do?â I say. âOur neighbors across the street canât even see their lights from their house. They have to walk outside to see their own lights. We can look at their decorations from our house whenever we want! We donât even have to go outside!â
âI donât like the people,â he says, meaning the glowing plastic Jewish couple with their messiah baby. âBut I like all the lights,â he adds. âTheyâre like stars.â
I panic. Clearly, Christmas is winning. I mean, of course itâs winning. Lights on houses, sparkling Christmas trees set in the middle of a Christmas present moat, some jolly old man taking requests without actually considering if youâve been naughty or niceâall compared to a B-list Jewish consolation holiday.
On balance, Hanukkah sucks.
I add in a moment of panic: âYou know, Christmas only lasts one day, and youâll get EIGHT DAYS of presents for Hanukkah!â
He gives me a smile, and I know that Iâve scored points even if I scored off of a foul.
And then we are at the bus stop, and I kiss him good-bye.
He calls back to me from the top of the bus stop steps, âIcanât wait until EIGHT days of Hanukkah presents!!â And the little gentile children turn to him with envy in their clear, blue Whoville eyes.
25
KILLER ROCKY ROAD FUDGE
by Alisa Schindler
E very year on the holidays, my family, my extended family and even my husbandâs family all converge at my mother and stepfatherâs. I am thankful for us all to be together . . . and, equally so, that I donât have to cook.
The one thing Iâm responsible for is a dessert and somehow Iâve gained a reputation for having some sort of baking prowess, despite not being much of a baker at all. The secret? My rocky road fudge. It
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