Thanksgivukkuh 2013- Time to Get Excited (And a Giveaway!)

Alright people, it's time to get excited.

We are on the cusp of a once in a lifetime event. No- a once in an eon event. No- a once in the entire course of human history excuse for an epic food based party.

Do I have your attention?

You see, Jews love to eat. (That's not fair, humans love to eat, Jews just have an awful lot of holidays dedicated to it.) And Americans love to eat. (Perhaps more than any other humans on the planet.)

America has one epic holiday dedicated to eating. Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is essentially a two day long stuff-yourself-until-you-explode cornucopia of awesomess. First, you snack as you cook while watching an epic parade. Then there's the Thanksgiving Dinner, which you eat mid-afternoon to maximize the amount you can cram in your gullet. Then you sit back on the couch and either watch football until you've digested enough to head back for more, or play board games with your family until somebody marches off in a huff to get to the rest of the stuffing and eat it all out of spite.

Then you somehow manage to stay awake, despite the food induced sweating, long enough to have a last slice of pie for your midnight snack before passing with a radio that suddenly plays Christmas Carols around the clock.

When you wake up you have leftovers for breakfast, which is amazing, and then you have leftover turkey as sandwiches for lunch (or not turkey, if you're vegetarians, but still).

Want one of these? Donate to the kickstarter!

Then you have pie for dinner, because somehow you managed to "forget" that whole emergency back-up pumpkin pie, and now that your family has headed their separate ways, you can sit in front of the television and watch Home Alone and eat the whole thing with a fork and a can of Reddi Whip that you squirt directly into your mouth.

...or maybe that last part is just me.

But this year, there is a twist.

This year, Channukah starts on the same day as Thanksgiving.

...for the non chosen-people among my lovely readers, Channukah is ALSO a foodie holiday. Of epic proportions. You see, the thing that makes a food "traditional" for Channukah is that it's cooked in oil. It's that whole miracle of the lights thing- enough oil for one day burned for eight, so we use enough oil for six months in eight days.

That's right, if you want "traditional for Channukah" food, all you have to do is deep fry it. It's the Jewish version of the Texas State Fair.

The two most common "traditional" Channukah foods are deep fried potatoes and deep fried jelly doughnuts.

And this delicious heart-attack-waiting-to-happen corresponds with Thanksgiving, for the one and only time in all of human existence.

You see, the Jewish year runs on a lunar calendar. That means that our holidays don't match up with the same days each year on the standard solar calendar. But the lunar calendar, frankly, isn't as good. Rather than have a once every four years leap day (and a very slow conglomeration of seconds that shifts our time zones over the millennia) we have a whole leap month.

Basically, the Jewish calendar repeats on a nineteen year cycle. That means that the earliest possible day that Channukah can begin is November 28th. Channukah will never, ever, start earlier than that. That's also the day it starts this year.

Now, Thanksgiving is the third Thursday of November, no matter what day that happens to be. The latest that day can possibly be is November 28th, which is what it is this year.

So, I imagine you're all getting out your calculators, trying to figure out when the next time this is going to happen would be. Put them away now, because there's one last factor you haven't considered.

Remember when I said the Jewish lunar calendar wasn't as good as the Gregorian calendar we all use? Well,
every thousand years the lunar calendar moves another four days out of sync with the solar calendar.

And what does that mean?

It means that, unless the powers of be decide that the Jewish calendar ought to be modified, the very last time that Channukah will EVER fall on the 28th of November will be in 2146... and it will be a Monday. The Monday AFTER Thanksgiving.

So why hasn't it ever happened before?
Because we've only been celebrating Thanksgiving in this country since 1863.

...the last time Channukah started on November 28th was in 1861.

So what does this mean?

It means this is the time to DEEP FRY ALL THE THINGS! For America! And for defeating the Greeks so Jews could keep being Jewish (and eventually Jesus could be born, etc. etc. etc. for all you gentiles)!

Ever wanted to deep fry a turkey? This is the year to do it.

Ever wondered what happens when you stuff cookie dough with cranberry sauce and deep fry that? Try it out!

Deep fry your corn bread! Make sweet potato latkes!

Seriously, folks, the possibilities are both endless and delicious!

So why am I writing about this?

I am DELIGHTED to be teaming up with Modern Tribe to give away an incredible Thanksgivukkah t-shirt. This design is AWESOME, and one lucky reader is going to be getting one- in the size of their choice! There's both unisex and ladies' cut, produced on American Apparel shirts.

So you know they're freakin' comfy, which matters when you stuff your gut so much your plan ahead for your best elastic banded pants.

(Or in my case, skip the pants, just own it and wear a muumuu.)

So how can you win this amazing shirt?

a Rafflecopter giveaway



A randomly chosen winner to be announced on Sunday at midnight!

Let's Do This Every Year

All the best things for Mother's Day.

I think we may have found the perfect Mother's Day tradition.

While I spend a glorious extra forty minutes in bed, M and the girls make breakfast.

Heart shaped goat cheese omelet? Yes please. :)

Over breakfast, I am presented with some goofy token of my family's appreciation of me as a mother.

You know. Because I love Star Wars. And despite sharing her name, have never dressed up as Princess Leia.

Everyone gets a chance to play with my silly new toy.

Space-Princess DD

Space-Princess SI

The girls don't care if they don't exactly get it, it's still fun.

The littlest Leia

Of course, M gets in on the action.

Princess Daddy

Then, like a freakin' rock star, M takes the kids out to run some "Special Mother's Day Errands," and I stay home. Alone. To, say, take a hot bath. Maybe the first real, long, hot bath I've had in five years. Maybe in so long I've actually forgotten how one enters a bath so hot it's nearly scalding. Maybe.

With an icy glass of dry soda, the Stravinsky's Firebird ballet, and tea-tree and lavender bubbles? Ohhh yess....

While I soak in the tub for a glorious 80 minutes, I actually get to read a book.

FYI- if you're into thrillers, mysteries, horror, that sort of thing... this is PHENOMENAL. I could go on hours about how brilliant this book is- if you can believe it, I would call it a feminist serial-killer-who-brutalizes-and-violates-women book. Didn't know that sort of thing exists. Well, it does, And it's awesome. It's US release is next month. (Many many many extra thanks to Poppa for bringing me back an inscribed copy from London!)

After my long hot soak, I take a long cool shower. Then the girls return laden with gifts for their incredibly refreshed, incredibly happy mother.

If you live in/near Chicago and you've never had chocolate or ice cream from Margie's Candies, all I can say is... what have you been doing with your wasted life?

After a quick lunch of muffins (also courtesy of M's "Special Mother's Day Errands") the kids ALL nap, and M and I lounge around and devour way too much of the fruits of his labors. You know, while I finish my book. For real.

Seriously- it's set in Chicago, it has references to The Maxx, it's filled with wonderfully crafted characters and vivd historical references, and it is SERIOUSLY a page turner. You want to read this book and talk to me about it.

After nap time. we play and cuddle and laugh and have fun for about two hours, and then head out to a restaurant for a delicious Mother's Day dinner.

This involves DD plastering every inch of exposed skin with her marinara sauce. I mean look at her, the kid is orange.

And then? Home. And bed.

I love my goofy girls. :)

...and of course, more chocolates. :) Best. Mother's Day, Ever.

Hunting Grublings

No, we're not trying to capture them! The grublings are hunting! Hunting for eggs. :)

Photo spam!

Off we go!

Eggs everywhere!

So many eggs!

This is one cute baby.

Yeah, the kids are adorable.

Happy Easter from the kids!

Finding God, or Asking the Wrong Parent the Big Questions at the Worst Time

You can see how this might get complicated.

This most awkward church moment was thanks to Moses on Mount Sinai and the baby Jesus.

-----------

In the several weeks leading up to Passover, the girls and I discussed the upcoming holiday a lot. Not just because I *love* Passover, no, but because I had certain expectations of them.

I expected them to sing the Four Questions.

RH displaying the four questions

Now, if you're not Jewish, that probably made no sense to you. Allow me to elaborate. At the Passover seder, it is incumbent upon the youngest child (who is physically able) to ask four question- in Hebrew. I know, there are undoubtedly families that do the questions in English (we always follow our Hebrew questions with English versions), but the four questions have since time immemorial been set to song (as all Hebrew prayers) in order to make them nice and memorable. It's the nature of oral traditions.

And so, every time we watched, "It's Passover, Grover!" I insisted they pay extra attention to the four questions. I sang along with them. I coached them. I even got RH her own little four question book- mostly for the benefit of her big sisters.

The four questions are based on the overall question, "Why is this night different from all other nights?" The next four questions are elaborations of that. "On all other nights, we eat bread- why do we eat matzo tonight?" "On all other nights, we eat any vegetables, why on this night do we eat bitter vegetables?" "On all other nights, we don't dip our herbs. Why do we dip them twice tonight?" "On all other nights, we eat sitting up, so why do we recline tonight?"

Remember, all of this is in Hebrew.

As they learned the four questions, they made adorable and absurd mistakes. Rather than, "Shebechol halelot anu ochleen..." she would sing, "Beautiful halelot a new oh clean..." It was adorable.



They got a little stage fright at the seder, but...



It was sweet and adorable- as is generally hoped and expected. I'm sure next year they'll be even better- RH still won't be old enough to take up the four question mantle.

There was only one hiccup in my preparations for Passover- Eater. In the kerfuffle of planning a seder, teaching my kids the four questions, helping them learn all ten plagues (Angel of Death- really, you are a giant bummer to three year olds), and preparing them for living on matzo for a week (because of course Passover lasts for a week)... I also had to make Easter arrangements.

That meant working with a dear friend of mine to put together a smallish, toddler friendly Easter egg hunt.

So the only thing that the girls heard from me about Easter was that we would go to their friend's house and find colorful eggs. They were beyond ecstatic.

...except they asked me, "What's Easter?" and I said, "I think your daddy should explain it to you."

Of course I did. Why on earth would M want me to explain Easter? I would no doubt do it without any sense of happiness or excitement. Because, as we all know, I'm Jewish. My relationship with Easter is strained at best. I don't believe that Jesus was the messiah, I don't believe that he rose from the dead, and I don't believe in any sort of divinity associated with him. Those are Christian beliefs, and I simply don't share them. So I told the girls, "Daddy will tell you about Easter," and promptly moved on.

The inside of University of Chicago's Rockefeller Chapel

Apparently, they never asked him. All they did was tell him how excited they were to collect Easter eggs.

The day before Easter, we had a lovely Easter Egg hunt (more on that later), and the girls seemed totally appeased. The news that they would have ANOTHER opportunity to wear their fancy Passover dresses was beyond belief. I started worrying that they had no clue what was going on, and that M's parents, who were in town for the weekend, might suddenly find it weighing upon them to teach their grandchildren about Jesus. But we kept busy- first the egg hunt, then the HUGE Easter dinner... it was excitement and fun until bed.

And so, on Easter morning, we got into our "princess clothes," and walked to church.

It's an incredible church. It's only a few blocks from home, and it is unfathomably gorgeous. It houses an incredible pipe organ, and one of the largest carillons in the world. There were performances by a stellar choir, an orchestra, the organ, and the carillon. It would be perfect.

And so, the girls bounced practically all the way to church. They colored happily on paper bags for a post-service Easter egg hunt, and they gaped open mouthed at the astounding colors streaming in through the enormous windows.

As I pointed out details of the stained glass, showed them all the pipes all around us (streaming beautiful music all the while), their eyes widened and their jaws dropped. But there was also some concern, some obvious confusion. RH sat on Grandma's lap, DD sat on Grandpa's lap, and SI sat between me and Grandpa. M was on the aisle, to give his leg the most space. I began to wish desperately that it was M sitting next to the kids. I had a feeling that something very awkward was about to happen.

RH is in awe of the church

And then, finally, as the chorus sang... it did. DD couldn't contain her confusion any longer. With her brows furrowed, she nervously called my name.

"Mommy? Are we slaves?"
"Oh no, we're not slaves. This is about a different story. This is about the Easter story, not the Passover story."

A pause. A slanted look at the enormous sanctuary. More furrowed brows.

"Are we in Egypt?"
"No, honey, we're in a church. This isn't Passover, it's Easter."
"It's not Passover?"
"Well, yes, it is Passover. But we're here for church for Easter," I said in the quietest voice I could muster.

A pause, waiting for the bomb to drop.

"Mommy? What's Easter?"

Crap. "Well, um, Easter is a different holiday."
"With Easter eggs?"
"Yes, but that's not why we're here. We're here because of the Easter story."
"What story?"
Crap crap crap crap crap... "Um, it's a holiday about Jesus."
"Jesus?"

Suddenly, I was in panic mode. Did I really want my in-laws to experience the horror of their granddaughters asking, in church, on Easter, "Who's Jesus?"

"Do you remember baby Jesus from Christmas?" Bingo.
"Yes..."
"Well, the Easter story is that he grew up and died and then came back, and that's Easter."
The look of abject horror on DD's face was stunning.
"He DIED?"
"But then came back, and that's the story for Easter."
"Baby Jesus DIED????"
"He grew up, and then died, and then came back."
"HE DIED?"
"Yes honey, but it's okay."
"BABY JESUS DIED?"
"Yes he died but then he came back and now it's Easter!" I hissed, desperate not to draw the attention of the rest of the church-goers.

She seemed satisfied for one glorious, fleeting moment.

This expression is the precursor to all unanswerable questions

"Why did baby Jesus die?"

Why, indeed. I knew what M would have liked me to say, what my in-laws would have liked me to say, which would have been something along the lines of, "So that we could all go to Heaven someday and be with him," but I just couldn't do it. Instead, I said, "Because that's what God wanted."

Got it. That's what God wanted. Everybody can be happy with that, right?

DD looked concerned, but pacified. As I began to relax again, enjoying the beautiful strains of Vivaldi echoing through the stunning room, I heard it again- that stage whisper.

"Mommy! Mommy!"
"Yes, pumpkin?"
"Is God like the bush on the mountain?"
"Yes, like the burning bush."
"Mommy? Where is God?"
Really? Now? "God is everywhere, honey."
"God is in Egypt?"
"Yes, and God is at home, and outside, and in the sky, and in the trees, and in you... God is everywhere all the time. God is here now."
"God is HERE?" She looked around as though she might catch a glimpse.
"Yes, but we can't see God. God's invisible."

She seemed utterly satisfied, and returned to coloring her paper bag.

The service continued beautifully. Some poetry, more Vivaldi, a spectacular soprano solo... and then the pastor took to the microphone to deliver the Easter sermon. She spoke with a clear, crisp British accent, and her voice was beautiful. It echoed gently through the room.

"Mommy! Mommy!"
"Yes, honey?"
"Is that God?!"

Grandpa stifled a snort of laughter, and I heard the parishioners behind us giggling.

"No, honey. That's not God."

And with an angelic smile, it was back to coloring again.

Too bad they don't outfit churches with rocks to crawl under.

Happy Easter from DD, RH, and SI

My First Easter, or Why Is That Jewish Clown Crying in Target?

Thank you, internet, for this picture of the Jewish Easter Bunny.

Grandma called me and asked, "Should I bring Easter baskets for the girls, or are you making them?"

I kept asking M, "Do you want to make Easter baskets?"

He kept hedging. Finally, two days before Easter, he had a decision.

"I'd like to do the Easter baskets ourselves. You know, start our own family tradition."
"Great," I said, "You should go get Easter baskets then."
"I don't have time for that. You do it."

I hesitated.

"This is your tradition," I started. "Really, you should do this."
"You'll do fine, I'm sure. We don't need to do exactly what my family did. We'll do our own thing. Just go get the kids some Easter baskets."
"Like, the plastic wrapped ones in the store?"
"No, you make them yourself."
"And... what goes into an Easter basket?"

He stared at me blankly.

I repeated myself. "How do you make an Easter basket?"

Again, the blank look. "You get a basket, and you put the stuff inside."

"Describe one to me. Illustrate it."

He looked at me like I was from outer space.

"I've never had one! What goes into it?"

He heaved a deep sigh, and said, "It needs fake grass, and you hide jelly beans and stuff in the grass. It needs a chocolate bunny, and it needs a cellophane carrot thing filled with candy. And giant robin's eggs. Not those little ones."

Giant robin's eggs? "Just one chocolate bunny?"

"Oh yeah, just one. Not that much candy. It should have more toys than candy."

"Toys? Like... what? A book?"

"Yeah, a book would be good."

Pinterest is not my friend.

I bit my lip. I was a little embarrassed that I still felt lost and confused. I had never once in my life had an Easter basket. I'm Jewish, why should I have? But I knew he was right. He had no time to go to the store. I had a job interview that day, I would stop at Target on the way home, and pick up the stuff for Easter baskets. It would be over quickly.

"Fine," I said. "I'll make the Easter baskets."

I began covertly checking Pinterest for some sense of context. What goes into an Easter basket? Gardening supplies? Homemade cookies? Pajamas rolled into gigantic carrot shapes? All of it was overwhelming, and looked improbable. At least it seemed like a starting place.

M went to work, and I dressed in the closest thing I could find to appropriate clothes. I put on my best Fluevogs, and went off to my job interview. As this is still me we're talking about, I cobbled the outfit together at the last moment. It involved putting on a pair of sort of sexy rugby socks- but I had to pull them ridiculously high.  They were tight around my thighs, almost uncomfortably so, but they looked professional under the skirt. It was either that or bright orange leggings. I figured I'd just take them off when I got home.

The job interview was over quickly, which made me worry. It also gave me plenty of time to spend at Target before my sitter needed to leave.

As I neared the parking ramp, I began to feel very nervous. What goes into an Easter basket? I kept asking myself. It seemed like a lot of pressure.

I warmed up by getting myself two new cardigans and two new skirts. I put them in the cart, thinking they'd be great either for working the new job, if I got it, or just for looking nice for the spring. Feeling slightly better about myself, I turned the cart around and approached the Easter section.

The nice feeling disappeared instantly.

I watched the moms and grandmas hurrying through the aisles with a sense of purpose. I studied them, the way they simply grabbed things, as though dictated by a higher power, and pushed their carts towards the grocery section. They looked busy, harassed, but not at all bothered by the task at hand. I approached the two aisles of baskets with a sense of foreboding.

So. many. baskets. So many colors, so many sizes...

Baskets that were lined in fabric, baskets that looked like animals, baskets made of plastic, of wood, of felt. Baskets in the shape of stuffed heads. Spiderman, Yoda, Princess Aurora...

My stomach lurched.

I grabbed a gigantic basket. Huge. It was a ridiculous price. I put it back. I picked up the cheapest basket I could find. It was so chintzy looking, and tiny. A book would never fit in there. I put it back.

I circled the aisle for twenty minutes, my blood pressure rising, my throat tightening. And then I saw them- the baskets. A pink one, for DD, a yellow one, for SI, and another half a dozen colors to choose from for RH. I grabbed three baskets, and moved to the candy.

My understanding of Easter baskets

Reece's pieces in a cellophane carrot shape. Perfect. Jelly beans, check. Chocolate bunnies...

I stared at the wall of chocolate bunnies. And panic set in.

You see, the only Easter baskets I'd ever even seen up close were the display baskets in store. Baskets full to overflowing with toys, half a dozen chocolate rabbits poking out. Maybe a stuffed animal or two. M hadn't said anything about the stuffed animals.

I stared at the bunnies, and my head started swimming. Only one, I thought. I decided that if there was only one bunny apiece, I needed to make it count. I grabben the Lindt bunnies, and began to turn to the toys.

That's when I saw the giant peanut butter cup bunny, and I thought of M. M would LOVE that bunny... I thought. And then it hit me- M was the one who was crazy for Easter. Should he be the one getting a basket?

I went back to the baskets. I found a nice blue one. I put it in the cart. Then I went back through the candy, grabbing another one of everything. I remembered M's request for "giant robin's eggs." There were the miniature robin's eggs, and there were the regular robin's eggs... but that was it.  I circled the candy again, scouring every shelf. Giant robin's eggs? I circled again, more slowly. I started to feel an odd pain in my left hamstring, and ignored it. Again, I circled the candy section. No giant robin's eggs. Feeling hopeless and useless and utterly incompetent, I grabbed a bag or regular old robin's eggs and began rehearsing my speech of apology and contrition. I then collected the Reece's bunny, and stared at the four rabbits in the cart. Another panicked thought reached the surface.

What about you? If all four of them get baskets and you don't, the girls will want to know why. Do I really want to explain why mommy and daddy don't celebrate Easter together? SHOULD I? Isn't doing this as a family more important than differentiating between religions and beliefs?

My lips dry and feeling that odd pain growing stronger, I circled back to the baskets again. I got another one. I grabbed more Reece's pieces, another chocolate bunny, and moved over to the toys. I felt my feet ache in their gorgeous high heels. I willed myself to ignore it, and moved on.

I had just laid eyes on these cute little cups. Like the ones Grandma had gotten the girls for Christmas. I froze.

What about Grandma and Grandpa? Won't THEY need baskets?

I turned around again. I spent the next ten minutes searching for two more different baskets, and finally found what seemed to be the very last ones. All matching, but none the same. Now I had seven baskets, seven chocolate bunnies, seven Reece's pieces carrots... but what else?

I started stopping random moms. "What do you put in an Easter basket?" I asked. They looked at me like I was crazy. "Toys and candy?" "Right, but, which toys? Which candy?" They backed away slowly. I started sweating.

I stared into the vastness of Target. It was like looking into the abyss. Everywhere there were Easter signs, "Easter pajamas," "Easter shoes," "Easter toys," "FOR EASTER," "FOR EASTER." "FOR EASTER," was everywhere.

Pinterest- you're not helping.

I went tearing through the store. I picked up objects at random, wondering, Would M like this for Easter? Would Grandma? Would Grandpa? Would RH? Is THIS something that people do for Easter? Should I get Grandma a new nightshirt? Is that weird? Would Grandpa like this book? Maybe movies instead! The girls can get movies in their baskets! Easter dresses! Slippers for Grandma! Bunny shaped cord organizers! Yes! FLOWERS FOR EVERYONE!

I thought back to every commercial I'd ever seen.

Do people give each other clothes for Easter? Do they give each other food? Movies? Should I get M romantic stuff? What the hell do I get my father in law?

I started having heart palpitations, but I kept moving on. I realized that my left leg was going numb, and tugged at my absurd socks, throwing things into the cart all the while. A hungry caterpillar rattle for RH! Sundresses for DD and SI! Books, books, books! DVDs! Herb gardens for me and Grandma! All the while, stopping random strangers, gesturing at my cart, and practically screaming into their faces, "Does this look right?"

It was in the underwear section, picking up some new underpants for DD and SI that I completely lost it. My feet were aching in my interview heels, and I could hardly put weight on my left leg. It stabbed and throbbed simultaneously. When I shifted the elastic where the socks cut into the meat over my knee, a stabbing pain shot down my thigh, and my leg buckled. I leaned over my cart, buried my face in a heap of little girl nightgowns, and wept aloud, "What the HELL goes into a freakin' Easter basket?!"

I limped to the checkout lane, leaning heavily on my equally heavy cart, and began unloading the loot. As the things came out of the cart and onto the little conveyer belt, I began stashing them under the chewing gum. Mostly the things for my own basket. I don't deserve Wonder Woman pajama pants, I muttered under my breath, shoving the offending item beneath the Mentos. I crammed a copy of Skyfall behind the stack of People. I grabbed a bottle of water from the tiny fridge, opened it, and took a staggering, desperate swig.

A checkout girl from the next aisle over tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to my blouse. I looked down, and realized that it was unbuttoned nearly all the way to my skirt's waistband. In buttoning it up again, I discovered my own lipstick smeared all over my shoulder. I had a moment to imagine myself...

Half topless. Lipstick smeared like the Joker. Sobbing into a shopping cart overflowing with... so much junk.

The harrowing sounds of reality brought me from my humiliated reverie. "Your total is $504.18."

I burst into laughter. It was almost tears. The poor check out girl ushered me out as quickly as possible.

I called M from the parking lot, and without preamble announced, "I just spent five hundred dollars at Target."

A pause. I imagined he wasn't screaming yet because he was still at his desk and it would draw the attention of his office mates. When he spoke, his voice was on the verge of cracking. "On WHAT?"

"...Easter baskets?"

"Oh my fucking god. You know it's all got to go back, right?"

I turned on the engine for the car, and discovered that I have been in Target for more than two and a half hours. I was already half an hour late for the sitter. At least when I get home, it will be nap time, I told myself.

But upon arriving limping up the three flights of stairs to our door, I discovered the sitter had failed to enforce nap time. My children were in the midst of their post-nap time un-napped meltdowns. Screaming, flailing, hitting. I didn't even get my fancy and incredibly painful shoes off before enforcing time-outs and calming hysterics. After collapsing on the floor and engaging in a pseudo-shouting match with a child who was beating her tiny fists against the floor in protest of my removal of the torture devices I once called socks, I initiated bedtime two hours early. No child protested- a small miracle. M returned as I was organizing my dozen Target bags- to at least take a look at whatever small disasters I had brought home.

He stood in the doorway, jaw agape as he surveyed the damage. Seven baskets. Stacks of books. Heaps of $5 DVDs. For a moment, it looked like he might yell. Then his eyes turned to my face. His voice tender, full of concern, he asked, "What happened?" I burst into hysterical sobs.

This is probably pretty accurate.

I told him about the peanut butter bunny, and then the fifth basket, and then the seventh basket, and the EASTER EASTER EASTER signs everywhere, and the books, and the moms looking at me as though my head was on backwards, suddenly realizing as I said it that I must have looked insane with my lipstick smeared to my ear and my shirt hanging open.

Calmly, he helped me set aside the things to keep for each basket. A chocolate bunny. Fake grass. A book. A carrot shaped cellophane filled with candy. A bubble wand. It looked... right.

I filled a 13 gallon trash bag to overflowing with the things to return. As the scene began to look like a normal evening in our home, he asked, "What about the clothes you got for yourself? Where are those?"

It was my turn to stare at him blankly.

I knew they weren't in the car. I was careful not to leave a single bag, lest it contain chocolate that might melt in the afternoon sun. I scoured the house.

Nowhere.

And I thought back to the only place it could be- the place where I suddenly remembered a half topless crazy lady looking like a horror show who had opened a bottle of water, taken a single swig, and then left it on the counter without paying.

In the cashier's rush to get me out of her store, she must have forgotten to put the last bag into the cart. It would have been the last bag, too- the clothes were the first thing to go into the cart.

I began to cry again, curled into bed, and hoped that sleep would come quickly. "Good thing you got the giant robin's eggs!" he said. I nearly punched him.

Bright and early the next day, I once again found myself at Target. It had been about eighteen hours since my last visit, and I felt notorious. Conspicuous. I was terrified that despite my lack of heels and limp and lipstick, I might be recognized.

I set my trash bag full of freshly purchased goods on the Customer Service counter, and asked if there was any chance they had found a bag with some skirts and cardigans in it at the check out the previous day. The woman took my receipt to a manager and told me we'd have to wait a while. Over the next half hour, I told her my tale. After all, it's so awkward just standing next to a gigantic bag full of candy that you know is just getting thrown away. My guilt was palpable. I had to confess.

As I told her of my panic, of my desperate search for the right baskets, she suddenly perked up. "Oh! I THOUGHT you looked familiar! I saw you here yesterday!"

As I felt the blush of pure mortifying horror rush to my face, I looked down to hide my shame. I discovered that my blouse was partially open. I surreptitiously buttoned it up again, now waiting in silence for the manager and my new cardigans.

They found the record of my clothes, and allowed me to take them back with me. As the Customer Service lady went through the entire bag- the four baskets, the four Reece's carrots, the chocolate bunnies, the herb-gardens-in-a-bucket, the bunny shaped cord organizers- she kept shaking her head and laughing.

"You know, these would have been lovely Easter baskets."

With my tail between my legs, I got into the car to hit my one last stop before Easter could officially commence. I had to get several dozen eggs from the grocery store. I picked up the cheapest eggs I could find, and returned home. Exhausted, but hopefully redeemed.

While I was out Grandma and Grandpa arrived from Minnesota, and they were playing with their grandchildren when I arrived. Naptime began peacefully. Grandma had all sorts of things to put into the Easter baskets. A lot of things I had just returned to Target. Clothes, toys, bags upon bags of candy.

As Grandma emptied my grocery bag, I heard her laughing.

It was Easter, and I had returned from the store with a bag full of brown eggs.

BROWN eggs.

You know...

For Easter.

Next year, this is M's job.

Our finished Easter baskets. Hopefully, worth my utter public humiliation.

What We Need the Most

Aunt Genocide displays the seder plate

For the first (and I hope the last) time, our family seder didn't include Grandmommy or Poppa. In fact, it was just the SuperMommy family, Aunt Genocide and her boyfriend, and some family friends. A small seder, at which the absence of my parents were very much felt. They instead had their seder in Spain, with Great Grandmommy and Great Granddaddy. So, Aunt Genocide and I rolled up our sleeves and did what we thought Grandmommy would have done. We put together a kick-ass seder.

Matzo spanikopita, mushroom stuffed mushroom gratins, a beet filled salad, gigantes, matzo ball soup, pecan sunshine cake, flower arrangements, candy dishes, relish plates... mom would have been proud.

This year, the girls learned a Passover song at Hebrew school I had never heard before. I never really realized exactly how true it was.

Oh what are the things we need for the seder table?

These are the things we need for the seder table

We need a kiddush cup for the seder table

But the people around the table are what we need the most!

Oh what are the things we need for the seder table?

These are the things we need for the seder table

We need a haggadah for the seder table

We need a kiddush cup for the seder table

But the people around the table are what we need the most!

Oh what are the things we need for the seder table?

These are the things we need for the seder table

We need the seder plate for the seder table

We need a haggadah for the seder table

We need a kiddush cup for the seder table

But the people around the table are what we need the most!

Oh what are the things we need for the seder table?

These are the things we need for the seder table

We need the three matzot for the seder table

We need the seder plate for the seder table

We need a haggadah for the seder table

We need a kiddush cup for the seder table

But the people around the table are what we need the most!

Chag samayach, lovely readers! Next year in Jerusalem!

Dual Religion Reality Check

There are internet cats for everything.

When M and I were first engaged, I was talking to my sister about our plans to have children. "Would they be Jewish?" she asked me.

"Well, I'm Jewish," I hedged.
"Yeah, fine. But will they be raised Jewish?"
"They'll be raised both."
"Do you really think that's going to work?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean- can they really be Jewish if they're raised half Christian?"
"Well, they can make a choice when they're old enough. If they want to."
"But you'll want them to."
"Probably."
"And if they're raised with a Christmas tree, if they're raised learning that Jesus is the messiah, can they ever really be Jewish?
"I don't know."

And I didn't know. And M and I had a lot of long talks about religion, about what parts of it were important to us, and why. I put my foot down on Hebrew school. I told M, I don't always believe in God, I don't always know that I believe in God, and I am certain that I don't believe in God the way he's described by the majority of religious people, but I believe in my culture.

And I tried, vainly, to explain that Judaism isn't really a religion. Or isn't only a religion. That it's a community and a heritage and a birthright. That being Jewish doesn't mean speaking Hebrew or making aliyah, but that those things are important because they help Jews connect to each other.

And M was perplexed and exasperated, but understanding.

And then we had kids, and now they go to Hebrew school, and things are a little different. They're different because our children play Shabbat, light their little wooden candles and mumble their Hebrew prayers, and sing silly songs about challah on the sabbath.




And M feels that this has nothing to do with his own culture, his own heritage.

At first, he tried to tell himself that Judaism is the precursor to Christianity, and therefore anything that Jews did was in some way related to what Christians do. He has quickly learned how incorrect that assumption was.

Shortly after Channukah, we had a conversation that seemed eerily familiar to me. The kids were all sleeping in the back of the car, and M and I had started talking about his desire for the girls to go to Sunday school. He said he wanted them to go, but he didn't know why.

"Is it because the girls go to Hebrew school?"
"Yes, sort of."
"They can do both."
"That's not what I want. It's just... hard, to feel like there's something important in their lives, and in your life, that I don't have any connection to."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't. For you, it's a culture. It's your identity- and I don't have anything like that. I'm just... sort of boring. I don't have any traditions. I don't have any culture."
"You're not culture-less. You're American."
"Gee, thanks for that."
"Really. You can't know what it's like to grow up Jewish, because you've never been part of a minority. You're a white, Christian, American male. Your culture is THE culture. You don't know what it's like to feel like an outsider in your own community. No matter how many Jewish people I knew, every time Nickelodeon played a Christmas special, I felt weird and different. Every time the teachers handed out candy canes, every time I went to a friend's house and they had Christmas lights or a Christmas tree, every time Christmas songs came over the radio, every time they put up a Christmas tree downtown, I felt like I didn't belong. Like I wasn't welcome. You might not have any sort of cultural identity that you SEE, but I see it. And because of that, your kids will never feel as alien as I did. And maybe that will make them less Jewish. Maybe part of being Jewish is cultivating that feeling that you're not the same as everyone else. It's the whole "chosen people" business. But it sucks feeling like you don't belong in your home.
"Your kids are going to grow up with a Christmas tree, with a dad who watches claymation specials or whatever it is you do, with a sense that the phrase 'Merry Christmas' isn't actually a subtle way to say 'Fuck you if you don't celebrate Christmas.'"
"That's kind of harsh..."
"Yeah, but it can feel that way. More and more it feels that way."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't want to make you feel bad, I want to make you feel better. I might be giving our kids a sense of cultural identity that you don't have, but you can give them something that I never had, and that's feeling safe and welcome in their own country. I can never give them that. I can never make them feel that way."

Then we carried our three sleeping children up to bed.

Lighting candles

The thing is, neither M nor I is particularly religious, but we're both fairly spiritual people. And the problem with religion in general is that it's divisive.

Most Jewish kids in the United States are familiar with a short conversation. It starts with the Jewish kid doing/saying/having something foreign to the other, and the other asking why. The Jewish kid answers, "Because I'm Jewish," and the other kid says something like, "Oh, I guess that you're going to Hell, huh?" because that's what they've been taught- that without belief in Jesus you go to Hell.

This year, I googled "Channukah Cookies" and found a site completely dedicated to trashing Jews who were trying to "cash in" on the "Christmas tradition" of making cookies. This isn't an isolated incident. This is what it's like to be Jewish in America. This is what it's always been like to be Jewish- to always be a minority.

Jews are all about history. We can trace our family tree back to which son of Jacob we were descended from. We can trace our direct lineages back hundreds of years. Our shared history and shared culture is what is important to us.

We know that the Passion Play was a tool to rile up mobs to attack Jews hundreds of years ago. That's history, but when the news is covering the local churches' performances, it still makes me worry that my Catholic neighbors are getting ready to enact some sort of punishment against me. Because I'm Jewish, and the lesson that used to be taught about the Passion is that all Jews are responsible for Christ's crucifixion.

M will never know what that feels like, but our kids will.

Every time I see a Confederate flag, I think about the people attacked by White Supremacists, and I worry for my children.

I don't know if M has ever felt that fear from those symbols.

Right now, my children are watching Lambchop's Passover special. Shari and Dom DeLouise are singing about the items that go on the seder plate, and my kids are playing with their very strange baby Moses story book doll.

Here's the thing- around Christmas, there are HUNDREDS of movies to choose from about the holiday. And another three or four come out every year in movie theaters. 

Every year M can take his children to go look at Christmas light displays at the zoo, and harbor no resentment that his tax dollars are paying for something that is fundamentally denied to a minority- a minority he isn't a part of.

M doesn't feel that he has a culture to share with his children, but he does. It's a culture of inclusivity, despite my own exclusion.

So I have no idea if my kids can really be Jewish if they've grown up being included. Being part of the Christian mass of the American public. Trimming their Christmas trees, going on Easter Egg hunts, being told by their parents that there is such a thing as Santa Claus, having Santa Claus play any kind of role in the story of their childhood. They'll grow up ingesting the constant messages about Christ and Christianity and especially Christmas that America is utterly saturated with.

Visit from Santa

Most Americans don't see it. They don't see how Christianity is fundamentally a part of American culture. They decry the "War on Christmas" because they don't understand how thoroughly it is already won. Already, to be an American, really an American, you have to be intimately familiar with a subtle language that pervades everything. The "War on Christmas" is non-Christians asking not to be forced to participate in Christmas, that their children not be forced to participate in Christmas, that they can live one day of their lives between October and the New Year without having to know what "the reason for the season" is.

But my kids? They will never feel that way. My kids are part of this, thanks to their father. And that makes me feel distant, alien.

I don't like that feeling. Just as I know that M doesn't like the feeling that the girls and I are part of a culture that he can't share.

The fact is, M and I will never really be able to ignore our cultural differences. M will always have the culture of his family, his childhood, his nation. I will always have mine.

But our kids? Who knows. Who knows what happens when you teach your kids they are members of a group that is fundamentally separate from all others, and when you simultaneously teach them they are members of the collective whole.

Who knows?

I don't. I don't know what it's like to be Jewish and to feel completely included in the culture of the majority.

I don't know if it's possible to be Jewish and to feel that American culture isn't constantly attacking you.

But I suppose we're going to find out. And no matter what, M and I always address these issues the same way- with love and kindness and open minds.

Maybe watching us struggle to explain Passover and Easter in the same week will teach our kids something greater than religion. Maybe it will teach them to transcend religious divisions. Maybe it will teach them to cherish their heritage and cultivate their sense of history on both sides. Maybe they'll become militant atheists, who knows.

What we know, M and I, is that we really don't care about religion. What matters to us is the peripheral stuff. For us, it's about us, nobody else. So if the girls grow up with a sense of awe for the universe, respect for life in its myriad forms, and a strong moral compass... we've done a good job.

We just need to keep that in mind as we try to teach them our own histories, our own faiths, with consideration and respect for each other's.

You'd be amazed how little of an example is out there for how people can do that.

Queens and Caped Crusaders

Making jewelry at the Purim Carnival

This past weekend was Purim, sort of the Jewish Halloween.

A few fun facts:
Like pretty much all festive Jewish holidays, Purim celebrates the same thing. Some other culture attempted to completely annihilate the Jewish people, failed, and now we remember the event by eating delicious, delicious food.

In this case, it was the Persians. A Persian minister named Haman convinced the King (Xerxes) to kill all the Jews in Persia. Unbeknownst to the King, his wife was Jewish. With the aid of her uncle, she convinced the King to spare the Jews, and instead Haman and his family were put to death.

Now we eat AWESOME cookies that look like Haman's hat.

Pretty gruesome.

But, as I said, it's sort of like Halloween. It's a time to dress up in costumes and celebrate.

Climbing around at the carnival

When I was a kid, it was my family's tradition that we dressed up as characters from the story. I was always partial to Queen Vashti.

Well, as a costumer and a lover of costume, I had desperately wanted to make my kids REAL costumes for today. I have a TON of red stretch velvet to make into Esther's gown, yards of green for Vashti's. But things got in the way.

And as the day loomed closer, and I was busied with sick kids and a sick husband and a sick self, it just didn't happen. And then I remembered the costumes I wore for Purim as a kid.

They were my parents' clothes. And they were pretty much the most exciting dress-ups in the world.

So for my two little queens, I simply opened up my closet and adorned them in my own clothes.

DD as Queen Esther and SI as Queen Vashti

They were OVER THE MOON.

This year, DD dressed and Queen Esther, SI as Vashti. And RH? Well, there might not have been any superheroes in this story... but why not?

Nananananananana BATMAN!

We went to our local Purim carnival. There were games, crafts, and of course hamentaschen.

It was a blast.

They tried to kill us, they failed, let's eat.

Happy Purim!!!

Oh Monsters, Why Did I Create You?

The monsters attacking Daddy

My children are monsters.

I don't mean that they're horrible, nasty, mean little children. No, I mean that they run around the house roaring and pretending to eat me. My children sometimes take turns being the monster and being the "Princess Knight on a horse with a sword." One lays on the floor, "asleep," while the other uses their "sword" to kill the monster (usually RH's playpen), and then kiss the "sleeping" princess and wake her up. And then it repeats, with the roles switched. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Sometimes, Daddy is the monster, and he chases them across the house. But like a roomba, when they reach a solid object (like the back door) they shift directions. The children become the monsters, and they chase Daddy until another object blocks their path.

They've been monsters for a pretty long time.

When I was still pregnant with RH, and honestly, not very pregnant at all, I started considering ways to make the transition to big sisterhood a little easier. The thing I read time and time again was that the new baby should give its new big sisters a present.

Easy enough. But I thought that it should be something big. But something fun, and distracting. Something that would keep them preoccupied.

And then I ran across this Kickstarter campaign...



It's an animal hat- but it's a monster! And it's a big, cuddly, Mr. Potato Head. I thought it was absolutely ingenious. I thought that my kids would love to play with that sort of thing. I thought that I would love to play with one. I thought about how much fun my sisters and I would have had, making puppet shows to perform ad nauseum for the adults in our lives.

That's right, a year ago, I invested in this business.

It's been a wide variety of exciting and frustrating. On the one hand, seeing all the changes, learning about all the challenges that go into producing a new product... it's a fascinating thing to have a view of. I learned all about the challenges they had finding a mass producer, how they decided to license their invention to a much bigger toy company... then it was totally weird to see the commercial on television for the final product.

...a final product that I still hadn't received. And still hadn't received. And still hadn't received.

Fun, right?

Over and over again, delay after delay. First, RH was born. The girls got dinosaurs instead. Then Channukah- no Hugalopes. Then Christmas- no Hugalopes.

And now?

Now it looks like they're coming. But I'm not going to be handing them out just yet.

Those Hugalopes are going to be fourth birthday presents.

...in October.

The thing is, as frustrating as it's been to sit around waiting, I was always a little bit nervous that they wouldn't be quite old enough. That they'd need too much help with the toggles, or they wouldn't be ready for the sort of creative play that comes with puppets.

Now I'm positive they're ready for everything but the toggles.

By their birthday, they'll be the perfect age for this sort of thing.

And so, with my Hugalopes FINALLY on the way, with a few toys stored away that were too complicated for them last year, and that didn't come in the mail before Christmas, I am almost completely done getting my twins presents for their birthday.

You know, that event more than SEVEN MONTHS AWAY.

I've even got the party favors for their Care Bears themed birthday party. Yeah, I'm that prepared.

Be jealous.