Resolving to be Awesome

It's time once again to revel in my neuroses.

As long time readers know, I don't do New Year's resolutions. I set a series of achievable goals, and I work towards them. Or, I don't. But either way, I stop at the end of every day and rather than cross it off my calendar, I check all the boxes of things I wanted to do and accomplished from my list.

I start every year by cutting out about 370 tiny square lists, and yes, every night I mark whether or not I did the things I wanted to do. And then I tally them up, and see whether or not I succeeded in meeting my goals.

This year was a bit of a surprise. Some things, I thought I rocked. Some? I thought I tanked way worse than I thought had. So here's how it actually broke down.

It's on sale for $.99 until Monday!!!

Goal: Write daily
Target: 365
I didn't do so great. In fact, I did one worse than last year- I only wrote 292 days out of 365. I'm cutting myself a bit of slack on this- I did a lot of traveling in 2014, so that would be a problem for my writing routine. And while I might not have written every day... I did publish quite a bit. I own three lovely anthologies with work in them. I got an agent to represent my memoir! But the thing is, I know I can always at least scribble out a haiku about having no time to write... so I have no excuse. This year- 365 or bust.


Goal: Eat at least two meals
Target: 365
I'm going to call this one an unequivocal win. I managed to eat at least two meals during 358 days of 2014! In fact, it became so much my routine... I'm actually eating right now. That's right, I've finally gotten the hang of freezing leftovers and then moving them to the fridge the day before I know I'll have a hard time figuring out what to feed myself. Right now? Borscht. And I love borscht, even if the beets didn't particularly care for being frozen. It's become so much habit, it's completely come off my 2015 goals. I have actually succeeded in modifying my own behavior! Go me!


Goal: Maintained minimum hygiene
Target: 365

You'd think this would be easy. All I have to do is brush my teeth OR wash my face OR take a damn shower. But then, you probably never had a house full of toddlers and preschoolers if you think this is always easy. I'm happy to say I improved on last year's abysmal number... but sadly, only by three. I only managed to brush my teeth at a bare minimum 284 times last year. And actually, last year was an improvement over the year before. So I'm going to give myself a little break, and actually lower the number for 2015. I know, gross, right? But let's be honest. There are sick days, there are camping/travel days, there are times when I already know I won't have ACCESS to running water or a toothbrush or anything... so I'm knocking a whopping fifteen days off this goal. My goal for 2015: maintain my hygiene at least 350 days out of the year. Just splash some goddamn water on my face, almost every day of the year. At 284 times in 2014, I run no risk of overstepping this goal. But baby steps, right?

Picking apples!

Goal: Went outside
Target: 312

Hahahahahahah no.

Even though I intentionally gave myself one day a week to not even step onto the balcony, I did even worse on this than bathing- which is probably good. There was a lot of correlation between days I didn't brush my teeth and days I didn't leave the house- so you're welcome, world. I'm also cutting myself some slack. There were days last year that the school canceled for, I quote, "Life threateningly cold temperatures." No way in Frozen Over Hell am I making myself leave the house under those conditions. So I'm also dropping my standards here. I left the house 273 days last year. That's kind of depressingly low, but five days better than 2013, so... win? This year, I'm lowering the standard again. I'm going to give myself one day a week to be a shut in, and one day a month to just be antisocial. So, an even 300 for next year.

Goal: Sang
Target: 365
This is kind of depressing, but I did SO BADLY.
It actually kind of breaks my heart to say this, but in the month of October, I only sang during three days. Three days in an entire month that I didn't sing a single song.

I'm in shock. I love to sing. This goal has been a huge wake up call for me. I am vowing, not only to sing, but to resume what used to be my routine of doing vocal warmups in the shower. So when I'm showering (more frequently this year!) I'll be singing. Even warmup ditties. "See the swimmers swimming in the deep blue see," and whatnot.

That said, I also get that I do get sick. And when I get sick, I lose my voice. Pretty much every time. So I'm giving myself a little leeway here, too. One day off a week from singing, just in case the voice box needs a rest. So new goal- 312. Which is almost twice what I actually accomplished- my abysmal 176.

...I'm so ashamed.


Goal: Had alone time
Target: 260
I assumed it wouldn't be possible on weekends at the start of the year. but you know what?

296 bitches!!!!!!!

This one became so important to me I actually managed the behavior modification to make it part of my daily routine, too. So it comes off the list! I have officially learned to give myself "me time!" GO ME!

Thanks to all who sponsored me in the RAINN 5K!

Goal: Exercised
Target: 156
I didn't do too badly, honestly. I hit 137, up from last year's 123. That said, I don't feel like I got a solid two weeks of exercising in at ANY point last year, and I know the bulk of my most vigorous cardio came from dancing my ass off at every wedding people were dumb enough to invite me to. So while I don't feel exactly BAD about it, the goal stays. 156. If I improve as much this year as I did last, that should be an achievable goal.


Goal: Observe the Sabbath with the kids
Target: 35
Last year, I decided my goal of lighting Shabbat candles with the girls every Friday night was unrealistic, so I lowered the goal to 35. I figured, that more than accounted for date nights where I wasn't home, for days where we were traveling and in hotels or somebody else's home, and I should be able to nail it. I even felt like we did a pretty good job this year- all the kids know all the prayers, and they get totally thrilled whenever I remind them it's Shabbat.

I bombed. Oh, how I bombed. 22. A whole seven weeks worse than last year. This year I will do better. This year I will do better. The goal stands.

Goal: Read a book for pleasure
Target: 12
I was so embarrassed last year- I only managed to read nine- nine- books for pleasure in the year 2013. So I was determined to beat my previous goal of a book a month.

Finishing up "The Glass Castle" with a sleeping toddler

You ready for this?

I read 34 books in 2014. Take that, slacker brain!!!! I've decided that since, first of all, I loved reading as a part of my routing SO much, and second of all I often lost count of how many books I'd finished over a weekend (such nice weekends!), I'm going to go ahead and up my goal. This year? 36. Three books a month. Yes, graphic novels still count. (So get crackin' Kirkman!). But some extra fun? Now that the girls and I are reading chapter books together, I'm going to get to revisit a bunch of childhood favorites, and they DEFINITELY count. Anne of Green Gables, Pippi Longstocking, Little House in the Big Woods... these are all on the next few months' reading list. And that doesn't even count the dozen or so books I've got lined up on my kindle for after they're asleep. Should be a good year for books. :)


Goal: Finished a project
Target: 12
And how many projects did I finish this year?
Forty fucking one.
Take that, slacker hands!!!! In 2013, I felt amazing for finishing a whopping 13 projects. This year though, I finally got over some creative blocks, and I had a BLAST making things. Art, cakes, cards... and yes, I definitely counted the lavender honey roast duck I made for Thanksgiving as a project. I'm a vegetarian and let me tell you, that thing was pretty.

So I'm not going to push myself to do more next year- I'm just going to push myself to keep up. The goal for 2015- 36. Three projects a month. And yes, home improvement projects count. So when I repaint the trim in the living room, that is DEFINITELY a check mark for the day!



And that's how I did in 2014. I'm adding a new one, since I can't stand living in the kind of chaos my house has devolved into.

Goal: House cleaner when I go to bed than when I wake up
Target: 156
Three days a week. I think I can handle that. I hope I can handle that.




...but you know what? Something else has been seriously lacking in my goals. These have all been small, reasonable things. Something I can do and expect myself to do. But I haven't been giving myself enough credit. I have gotten better and better of expecting more of myself, not the bare minimum.

On facebook, I phrased it- "I resolve to be awesome!" But I don't do resolutions. I do achievable goals. So now here I am, adding another goal.

Opening up LTYM Chicago

Goal: Accomplish Something Amazing
Target: 4
One a season. Because you know what? I accomplished some really amazing things in 2014, and now I can't help but expect myself to meet that new standard.

I became a professional speaker- on behalf of RAINN and about sex positive parenting. I was a BlogHer VOTY. I stood on stage for Listen To Your Mother. I got an agent for my memoir. I was published in three anthologies. Those are serious accomplishments. And I deserve to expect them from myself.

So today, I'm already checking one off my list for 2015. Because this? This is my 700th blog post on Becoming SuperMommy.

Seven hundred posts.

That is no mean feat. That is hours and hours and hours and hours, months, years, of pouring my heart and soul into the internets and actually learning from it. Gaining the love and support and friendship of amazing people all over the world. Becoming a better person. Becoming a better writer. Becoming a better friend.

...Becoming SuperMommy.

I'm still not there yet. I am by no means SuperMommy, really. But I'm giving myself a little credit. I'm giving myself the benefit of the doubt. I am patting myself on the back and saying, "You know what? You kind of rock."

So all of you should pat yourself on the backs, too, because you're amazing. Without you, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have a stack of anthologies with my name in them, I wouldn't have a finished memoir and an agent representing it, I wouldn't have a list of appearances and interviews... all of that was your doing, and I am unfathomably grateful.


Here's to 2015, lovely readers! Here's to you!

I love you all.

The SuperMommy Family Annual Letter

Hello and Happy Holidays, dear friends and family,


Sometimes it's hard to believe how much anyone can grow in just a year. 2014 brought so many changes and so much joy to our family, it's flown by before we even knew what hit us.




SI, age five, is reading at a third grade level. I never get over my shock at her working vocabulary, although sometimes I do wish she would stop prompting complicated conversations by reading aloud from billboards on the freeway advertising Adult Superstores. She has spent much of the last year developing a sarcastic streak, for which Mike is happy to take credit. She loves birds, her new favorite superhero is Falcon (and his pet falcon, Redwing), and asks weekly if we can get a pet macaw. The answer is no, but we are looking forward to showering her in stuffed birds this holiday season.







DD, also age five, has decided she wants to catch up to SI when it comes to reading, and I couldn't be happier. All of us read the “Catwings” books together, and it seemed that was all the prompting DD needed. Cats? Flying? She was hooked, and now she's happy to curl up in bed with a book and spend a few hours in another world. When she's not reading, DD nurtures her budding artistic talent. She loves to draw, paint, anything that involves putting color onto something else. I am looking forward to the day in the near future when I invite her to work with me in the studio on canvas.

RH, age two, is the most stubborn and determined child I've ever met. Yet, she has one of the sweetest dispositions. She is unfailingly polite, and asks permission for everything from a cup of water to, “Can I look at your hairbrush?” Watching her personality bloom has been a delight, and she makes us laugh not daily, but hourly, with her cheerful smile and absurd jokes. We decided to keep her in physical therapy and swim lessons instead of preschool this year, and she has thrived, charming all in her path. We can't wait to see what incredible changes she'll make when she starts preschool next fall.

M spent much of the summer preparing for his licensing exam, and sat sixteen hours of tests this October- on the same day as one of his best friend's wedding! We don't yet know the results, aside from proving once again what a brilliant and capable guy he is. His health remains stable, for which we are profoundly grateful.

As for me, I recently accepted representation from the Dee Mura Literary Agency, and look forward to turning my manuscript into an honest-to-goodness book. I've also started speaking publicly more frequently, and I'm looking forward to what the new year will bring on both fronts.







We have big plans for 2015, even if they don't include a pet parrot. And we are excited to begin this next year of adventuring.

We wish you the happiest of New Years, filled with peace and joy and love. We wish you good health, the warmth of friendship, and comfort of family through this winter, and into the next. We are grateful to have all of you in our lives, however distant, and we hope this year brings us many happy opportunities to be together.


With all our love,
The SuperMommy Family

The Big Book of Parenting Tweets

I was given an advance copy of the book, and all the opinions are my own

I love twitter.

I do, I really enjoy the challenge. Not that you'd know it from some of my longer posts, but brevity? That's something I really appreciate. It takes skill.

There's an old Samuel Johnson quote: "I'm sorry I'm writing you a long letter, I didn't have time to write you a short one."

I actually spend a fair amount of my non-blogging writing time writing haiku.

But one thing that twitter (usually) has over books of haiku? It's hilarious.

This little book is a treasure trove of 140 character levity. I was that weird combination of lucky and ridiculously unfortunate to catch one of the billion bugs swarming through the kids' preschool, and that gave me ample time to curl up and read this thing- including every single bio. Because it's that hilarious.

It should be noted though, that this might not be advisable. Apparently, the sound of my guffawing outloud through my sinus congestion reminded the children of the baboons in their Planet Earth dvds, and I may have set off a minor panic as they scoured the house for hidden exotic pets.

I've been enjoying the tweeted humor of many of the contributors for some time, but now they're ALL on my feed.

In addition to what is essentially a brilliant collection of parenting one-liners, the brilliant minds of Science of Parenthood illustrated some of the tweets. And it's comedy gold.

I'd say The Big Book of Parenting Tweets has joined my incredibly short list of go-to gifts for new parents. It's a great book to keep in the diaper bag, or, if you're the rare parent who actually gets to pee alone, in the bathroom.

Because let's be honest, when you're a new parent, 140 characters is about all you have time for anyway.

You can buy the book on Amazon, and you should. Buy it for everyone you know. Either in solidarity or as a cautionary tale.

Happy Reading!

Drowning in the Creep

M and the kids tracking each others footprints in the snow on Thanksgiving

I love Thanksgiving. I've always loved Thanksgiving.

For Thanksgivukkuh last year, I bought my kids a wonderful book- "Rivka's First Thanksgiving." In the book, a little girl in Brooklyn learns about Thanksgiving, and convinces her orthodox Lubovitch community to celebrate the holiday.

Because as first generation immigrants to America, the story of being welcomed in and protected by a new community spoke to her.

And being immigrants fleeing religious persecution in Europe, the story spoke to her more still.

In many ways, Thanksgiving is like American Passover. You gather with your family to recreate a meal, a meal where peoples of different backgrounds came together to celebrate that they would survive. Squanto was like Moses to the Pilgrims, and Moses would have been a stranger to the Jewish slaves.

It's a lot like Passover, really. Almost uncannily. Except instead of an afikomen, you get pie for dessert.

I love Thanksgiving.

On Amazon!

Which is one reason I can't stand Christmas Creep.

For many people, Christmas is the only thing they seem to like about Thanksgiving. For many people, Thanksgiving is wonderful because it gives them permission to stop holding back in their Christmas zeal, and the minute the table is cleared after dinner it's time to ring those sleigh bells and move onward towards the real winter holiday.

Only the thing is, unlike Thanksgiving, not all Americans recognize Christmas.

Thanksgiving is wonderful to me in that it is so comprehensively American. From Turkey tamales to three sisters stew, from pumpkin crumble to persimmon pie, every corner of America is filled with people celebrating what might be a largely fictional story, but is a fundamentally hopeful one.

Christmas? Not so much.

For me, as for most non-Christian Americans, Christmas is an annual giant, exclusive party that seems to grow by a day or so every year.

And I had no idea how much more lonely it would be for me once I had interfaith children.

As you probably know, M borders on agnostic and I dabble with atheism. But we appreciate the traditions and familiarity of our respective faiths.

The historically Jewish city of Chefchaouen in Morocco-
where the Jews who built it so strongly identified with their heritage that they painted the city blue.

We always planned on celebrating Christmas and Channukah with our kids, and we've celebrated both holidays with them since the first. But the fact of the matter is, to be Jewish is to be excluded. Not just here, in the United States. Everywhere.

We, as Jews, exclude ourselves.

And in a way, I think that is what has allowed us to survive this long. As isolated strangers in non-Jewish communities, we have always excluded ourselves. Like Tevya says of the Cossacks in Anatevka, "We don't bother them, and so far, they don't bother us." Until of course, the Czar decided some bothering was due.

We carved our niches out of the communities we wandered into, and although we lived side by side, we lived separately.

Not so, in 20th and 21st century America. We managed to make ourselves seen, and heard, and somehow welcomed for the most part. We accepted the mantle of "whiteness" the civil rights movement offered us. We started seeing ourselves as Americans as well as Jews. Something we certainly never did in Russia or Morocco.

The blue streets of Chefchaouen

But part of the appeal of the United States, for all immigrants, has been that it is a country without a single faith. That it is a country without a unifying culture. That it was and has always been based on ideals of freedom from religious persecution.

And the fact is, to be so thoroughly surrounded by a single holiday that you do not celebrate is smothering. To be vilified as being a "Scrooge" or a "Humbug" for feeling no love for a holiday that means nothing to you is a form of duress. It is a culture that says, "Pretend you believe this, or you are not one of us."

For most of my life, that feeling of isolation and rejection for not trimming trees or writing letters to Santa was something that felt natural to me. That felt like as much a part of my heritage as the bland, mindless way the Shabbat bruchot came to my lips as a child waiting for Friday night dinner.

It is not the same now. Now, I have children. Children who love Christmas, and whose love of Christmas hurts me.

I feel petty and unkind and shallow saying so, but it's true. That I am and must be complicit in their affection for Christmas only makes it worse.

I have little love for Jesus, in whose name countless atrocities have been committed against my ancestors. In whose name, as a child, my best friend sobbed and begged me to convert, because she didn't want to go to Heaven if she knew I was going to Hell. I have made my peace with Jesus, for the most part, who I think was probably a man trying to do some good, if he existed, which I can never know.

But I don't understand what American culture has done to his birthday. And in his name.

I don't understand how Santa Claus came to be, or why I must lie to my children, in however sheltered terms, rather than saying what I know is true. But I continue to lie to them. I tell them that he is real to them, because they have somebody who loves them and wants to make him real. The way fairies are real to some people, when somebody loves them and wants to make fairies real to them.

It's a pretty lie. It's one that I had hoped wouldn't hurt me to tell. But it does. Because I cannot make Santa real. I can only drive this wedge further between my children and myself, isolating myself more and more from their understanding of the world and their understanding of mine.

Our friends, Santa and Mrs. Claus with their favorite elf, visiting our children several Christmases ago.
Friends who love our kids enough to make Santa real for them.

For me, and for most Jews, to be Jewish is to be excluded. It is to be separate, to use our own favorite turn of phrase, to be "Chosen."

Part of what we choose is this otherness, and I wonder if my sister wasn't really right when she warned me about having children with a Lutheran.

"Can your children really be Jewish, if they grow up in a house that has a Christmas tree?"

I said I didn't care, but I know now that I do. I care very much. I want them to feel what I feel about my heritage, about my ancestry and my history. Their ancestry and history.

I want them to learn that part of being Jewish is being isolated from the larger community. That as welcome as we may think we are, we are always waiting for the tides to turn. I want them to understand that on Thanksgiving we are all American, and we are proud, and we are humble, and we are unified. But on Passover we remember that in every generation there comes somebody who would try to destroy us. That in every generation there is a genocide, and we have made it to this day by seeing the tides when they turn, and remembering who we are and where we came from.

When, in October, my children squeal with delight at the sight of Christmas lights in a store, I feel more lonely than ever in my life. My children, these people I made who shared my blood and my body, and will always share my history and my life, my children have been anxious for Christmas to come since that first sparkly snowman made his appearance on the Costco floor.

They gush about Christmas. They tell me what they want, they tell me they want to see Santa, they tell me they want to make Christmas cards and have Christmas stockings and a Christmas tree.

As they have had every year.

And I ask them, "What about Channukah? What about lighting the menorah each night? What about singing Channukah songs with me and Poppa?"

For them it's an afterthought. Something nice that will happen as well as Christmas. Not their isolated holiday warmth, not the oasis of familiarity in a Christmas dessert, where costume clad volunteers on the public train stare with fear in their eyes when someone responds to their, "Merry Christmas!" with "Chag samayach to you!"

They learn that fear young. "Did you know?" an eight year old friend asked me, her face pale and numb, as we arranged Barbie shoe filled traps for each other on her bedroom floor, a la Home Alone, by the light of the garlands strung down her bannister. I was too ashamed to speak, now part of the mechanism that had built and shattered what would become a formative childhood experience.

It wasn't that I didn't believe, it's that I knew the truth. And the truth was my parents kindly but sadly explaining that I should not tell other children the truth. That I must distance myself to protect them. That my distance was essential to their happiness.

As a child, I resented Christmas, and I could not escape it. I could not escape singing Christmas songs at my public school. I could not escape the constant talk of what Santa would bring to other children, and not to me. I could not escape the ornaments and tinsel in every grocery store, on the light poles downtown, on the bulletin board outside the Principal's office. I could not escape the trees, covered in candy canes or tiny toys, standing resplendent in all my friends' homes- shrinelike on their velvet skirts, revered in their untouchable beauty. I could not escape the Christmas stories on my television, every beloved character celebrating the very holiday that excluded me, until I couldn't bear any longer to watch even the Muppets imply that I, like Scrooge, was a "humbug."

For me, Channukah became meaningful not because of the story, a military holiday as opposed to a religious one. For me, Channukah was meaningful because after all the loneliness and sadness of my friends slowly distancing themselves from me, I found myself surrounded by the familiar songs and faces and foods of my people. My holiday. My little light in the winter dark.

Now, as always, my friends are beginning to shrink away. Earlier and earlier every year, with facebook quizzes about "Holiday Movies" based on "It's A Wonderful Life" and "Miracle of 34th Street," as though by erasing the word "Christmas" from their enthusiasm I can join in, I can pretend that my own experience includes Santa Claus and Christmas Miracles, as if just by being American I must be part of this, as though despite making myself visible as someone "other," I am at fault for neglecting my cultural duty to watch the Greatest (Christmas) Films Of All Time.

I find myself less patient with my inability to participate. I find myself feeling like a liar more and more, even as I tell my children that Santa is only real if somebody makes him real for you.

"I can't make Santa real for you," I say, and this is also a lie. I am complicit. I am the one who fills the stockings when their backs are turned. I am the one who lies by omission, by saying that Santa is real for anyone, ever, when Santa is a fiction who brings comfort to the majority of our neighbors, but only ever hurt me. Only ever guilted me into prolonging the moment when my friends would be crushed by the destruction of their happy fantasies.

The truth is that I don't want my kids to believe in Santa. Not because I don't think they can't really be Jewish on a fundamental level if they have a Christmas tree in the house. I think that it's hard to really empathize, to really understand who their ancestors were and what they faced if they don't understand what it is to be other. To be excluded and to understand that purposeful exclusion is a threat, but at the same time that self imposed exclusion can be safety.

Jewish men praying under guard in a Polish shtetl in 1940

Last month, the children cheered when they saw a Christmas tree in Costco, and I ignored it, stony faced.

"Is Christmas soon?" they asked, eagerly.

"No, first comes Thanksgiving. And then Channukah," I said.

"So why are there Christmas trees?"

It was a simple question, and I answered it simply.

"Christmas Creep."

"What's Christmas Creep?"

"Christmas Creep is when people are so excited about Christmas, they forget there are other holidays that other people celebrate. Including Thanksgiving, which is next."

"Why do they forget there are other holidays?"

"Because they don't need to remember, sweetie," I said, sighing, pushing my cart into the cold parking lot. Pushing it past other carts laden with trees and lawn reindeer and mountains of tinsel.

They don't need to remember, but I do. Jews do. "Never forget," and all of that.

The truth is that Christmas Creep isn't just about forgetting other holidays, it's about forgetting other people. And worse than that, Christmas Creep is about forgetting Christmas as well.

My husband, the Lutheran, hates Christmas Creep more than I do. For me, it's a familiar angst. For him? It's a reminder of what is constantly being lost for people who DO celebrate that particular holiday.

M tells me that he didn't really learn what Christmas was about until he was in college. An adult. Until he left home, Christmas was about getting. Now, he says, Christmas is about family, and love. Seeing his cousins in Minnesota, who he sees so painfully rarely. Seeing his aunts and uncles and remaining grandparents. Meeting babies and seeing how absurdly much children have grown. Physically being with the people you love.

But it's hard to explain that to a child through the haze of tinsel and and the twinkling of fairy lights.

Just under half of M's family (half of them)- an eight hour drive away

M can't stand the Christmas Creep, not because it makes him feel alienated from the world around him, but because it makes him resent the waves upon waves of distraction from what he actually cares about.

Neither of us are likely to jump onto the Holiday Fever bandwagon before we've thoroughly enjoyed our Thanksgiving weekends. Neither of us are eager to give up time with our families to buy things we don't necessarily need for a holiday we feel, in the case of both Christmas and Channukah, shouldn't be about presents anyway.

Despite this, M loves Christmas. He loves putting on his cheezy Christmas sweater, drinking quarts of eggnog with a grin on his face, hanging a wreath on our front door. He loves the lights and the stockings, the tree and A Muppet Christmas Carol. He loves gingerbread houses and red and green m&ms on Christmas morning.

I've always known Christmas was important to M, and it never bothered me. It still doesn't. I love seeing him happy, and I love making him happy. I go to church every year with his parents, smile and shake hands with the pastor, sing along through all the carols. The first date I ever took him on was after he came back from spending Christmas with his family. I drove him up to Sauganash, and parked the car, and walked hand in hand with him in the snow through a magical world of Christmas lights brighter and more complex than any in the town where I grew up.

And it was beautiful and romantic, even to me, somebody who doesn't care about Christmas.

I understand that there is something special about Christmas for people who do care, and part of me has always been dedicated to helping M create that magic with his children. Who also happen to be my children.

And M has been equally understanding when it comes to my need to pass along traditions to my children. He has agreed with me on the importance of a Jewish preschool, not for religious indoctrination, but for the introduction of a long and complex history we both want them to know. He has been at every family seder, cracking jokes about gefilte fish and still eating it. He has learned the Shabbat bruchot, and sings them with more enthusiasm than I did at our children's age. And it has also, in a way, pained him. And I know that.

Some of M's relatives like to wear shirts with slogans like, "Put the Christ back in Christmas." And both of us are all for that. Because it's honest. Because Christmas isn't "the reason for the season," but Jesus is the fundamental reason for Christmas. And the more we as a society get back to remembering that, the less Christmas Creep we'll have. The less we'll be constantly bombarded by messages to buy buy buy buy buy, and the less I will feel like I have to protect my children, not just from losing their sense of their cultural identity, but from losing ANY sense of cultural identity.

M and the girls watching football before Thanksgiving dinner, while Grandmommy and I cook and chat,
and my sister and Poppa take turns napping away what ails them

I know that M often feels that he has no cultural identity. That compared to me, a person from a self-excluded group, a person who deeply feels tied to history and culture that make me unique from society at large, he occasionally feels bland. Empty. As though his own culture has nothing to offer but Hallmark and Black Friday.

He struggles with putting to words what his culture is, besides being White America. He is like a fish who cannot see the water, having lived it and breathed it beyond the limits of his own existence. And he is learning, but it does not help him define it.

It does not help him explain to his children, my children, what is and is not meaningful or important, what is or is not a privilege or an identity, what is and is not good or bad or empty fluff.

Nobody seems to believe that Christmas is about presents except children. But they're picking it up somewhere.

So what is it? Is it about Jesus? Is it about family, about sharing the warmth of love and joy and familiarity in the coldest months? Or is it about casting divisions between "us" and "them"?

I don't know. I may never know. I don't even know that I want to know. Knowing the meaning of Christmas might be a little too close for comfort to me. Having a true understanding of what Christmas is and what it means puts me so much closer to its epicenter than merely hanging stockings over my mantle, and lying to my children about the reality of fictional characters who brings gifts bought with my energy, my money, and my love.

I don't want to sympathize with Christmas Creep, because I want to be able to focus on the things that matter to me, and I cannot emphasize enough- that is not Christmas.

To me, Thanksgiving opens the winter, with welcoming arms and the promise that the winter will pass, that I will spend cold months ahead in the warm embrace of my friends and family, that the food will be abundant and the cheer even more so, despite the short days and the bitter cold.

To me, Channukah is a week when I reflect on winters past. When I gather with my family and share stories so old they've become legend; from the revolt of the Maccabees to one time my four year old sister forgot her lines in our family Channukah play and announced to our "audience" that her song was rewinding.

To me, Passover is about winter ending and spring beginning, with a warning. We survived another winter. Another spring has come. And again we must remember that next year might be different.

And in the middle there lies Christmas.

I look forward to the days spent in Minnesota, surrounded by M's family, who have become my family. I look forward to hugs and cookies and catching up on news. I look forward to laughing at M's aunt's inappropriate jokes, and drinking beers with his cousin on the farm. I look forward to seeing my children get to know their cousins, in whatever limited capacity they can with so little exposure to each other, and hoping that someday they will feel the bond of love and family for these people who share their history, their heritage, their genes, and their traditions.

Chicago's Sauganash neighborhood, where I took M for our first New Year's Eve together. To look at the Christmas lights.

I do not look forward to church, but I go because I am part of this family and I want my children to know that and to be as well.

I do not look forward to the endless Christmas trees on the street and non-stop Christmas Pop on the radio. I do not look forward to people I love asking my children about Santa, and building my complicity every time I keep my mouth closed in a smile.

I cannot look forward to Christmas, because before I am even ready to approach it, it's here. Christmas Creeping its way under my skin and fatiguing me before I can acknowledge it. By the time Thanksgiving groceries are bought, I am done with Christmas.

But I'm not done. I'm never done. I'm an American citizen, and each year Christmas is more American than apple pie for Thanksgiving dessert.

And now I am less done than ever, because each day my children see a new toy in a catalogue, and they want Santa to bring it to them, so I set them to the task of simply circling toys I know I have no intention of buying.

That I neither want to buy nor can afford.

That are as much the "reason for the season" as the yet unpacked suitcases from our Thanksgiving trip littering the foyer.

I am learning through my children what it is to be included in this holiday, and I fear it means I cannot teach them the benefits of the inclusion of exclusion.

I am teaching them the importance of family, and of sharing traditions with family, even if that isn't the lessons they learn about Christmas.

I am teaching them the very things about Christmas I despise each time I offer a Santa platitude. Yet I offer Santa platitudes, despite each word breaking my heart as it tears my children farther from me.

As my Lutheran husband would smile and shrug and say, "Diyenu."

M and RH last Passover

This is otherness in America. But what good is my exclusion, what good is my culture and my heritage and the relative safety of my isolated rhetorical shtetl, if my daughters are on the outside, while I am in?

If I can't embrace my otherness, what is left of my heritage for me to hang onto?

Is a Jew without her tribe a Jew any longer? Or am I something else? Something lost, and sad, grasping for an identity that can never be this version of American which only comes when the days shorten; or something hard, and cold, unable to find the warmth of any tradition when it's all obscured by the never ending "Holiday Sale" that sucks the meaning out of anything joyful?

If not even my children understand what it is to wander, but not be lost in the fold of their family, I am utterly alone.

And there will be precious little left to be thankful for in Novembers to come.

I will be a child again, standing back from a tree covered in toys I cannot touch, resenting it for bringing me no joy when the children around me gasp in awe.

Only those are my children.

And if they cannot know what it is to stand outside of Christmas and never come close enough to touch it, I fear they can never know me. And without my children to keep me warm, to stand by my side and hold my hands, it is a long, cold winter indeed.

Or, it's not.

Or, it's exactly what I agreed to a decade ago, when I felt myself falling in love with a man I took to look at Christmas lights for New Year's Eve. When I braced myself to feel exasperation and frustration on a cold walk on the last day of the year, and instead found pure delight and peace by looking at the smile on his face as he took in the displays.

I watched him grinning at the lights, and he said, "Thank you."

Because he knew I hadn't expected to go on that date to make me happy, but had done it for him. And he knew that seeing him happy was all I wanted in the first place, and getting that, I was also happy.

He and I agree that the best part of any gift giving holiday, Christmas or Channukah or any old birthday, is the moment when somebody you love opens the gifts and their face lights up. They are transported in their joy, and it is that joy, not the contents of the box, that you have given them.

It's a joy that knows how much you care. A joy that knows how deeply you love.

I love my children. I want them to experience joys I never did.

Our menorah, over our stockings and nativity scene

But it comes at a cost for me. It comes at the cost of becoming complicit in a lie that hurt me. In a culture that rejected me and laughed at me for being rejected. It comes at the cost of being part of the mechanism that perpetuates my own otherness, even, yes, from my own children.

It is a cost I accepted long before I had to pay. I still accept it. I am still learning to love Christmas, not for what it means but for what comes from it. Time with a family that is now my family, the beautiful joy of people whose love means everything to me, pretty lights in a dark, quiet street.

But I can only stretch so far.

The growing "season" overwhelms everything, including perspective.

I do have to remember- I do not have the luxury of forgetting other holidays, other people.

I see the water.

What She Said Then, What We're Saying Now

I am beyond thrilled to be able to share with you my inclusion in the upcoming anthology, "Listen To Your Mother: What She Said Then, What We're Saying Now."

Being a cast member of Listen To Your Mother was an incredible experience. Especially because of how it exposed me to so many amazing stories. Each time I drive past a dried field of tall grass, I think of the story told by another mom about when her son and his friends nearly burned down the house by igniting the field behind it, and how she organized the children into a haphazard assembly line to smother the flames lapping at the building with wet blankets while they waited for the fire department to arrive.

I think about Debi's story, how her four year old transitioned from male to female, and how that affected her as a mother. These are stories I think all parents should hear. All humans should hear. It's such a remarkable thing that Listen To Your Mother has done, given these stories a microphone.

It was truly an honor to share a stage with these women. And it is truly an honor to share the pages of a book with them.

The new book is available for pre-order through Amazon now.

I'm so excited about getting a chance to sit down with this book and read it cover to cover. April can't come soon enough.

If you enjoy The Moth, or This American Life, you should order this book.

If it even comes close to holding a candle to the stage show, which I know it will, it's going to be utterly beautiful.

Official announcement here.

Motherhood: May Cause Drowsiness

Hello, lovely readers!

I am thrilled to announce the publication of a new humor anthology-
Motherhood: May Cause Drowsiness

I'm honored to say that yours truly is a contributor with two pieces in the collection.

It's a wonderful book of stories and essays about one of the great unifiers of parenthood- exhaustion. Be it sleepless nights or sleepless days, anxiety or cluster feeding, let's face it. We don't get to sleep as much as we'd like. We live in a fog of sleep deprived confusion, which is probably why this morning I called SI by my childhood cat's name by accident.

She was not amused.

I'm so excited to be a part of this project. It's been such an educational experience to watch the collection come together. Lisa Nolan, the editor, kept all of us intimately in the loop through the whole process, and it was really cool to see how an idea becomes a book.

I've loved getting to know all the other contributors, and I can't wait to finish reading it!

You can get your copy here. Or you can get your Christmas shopping done early and just get a copy for everyone you know. ;)

Happy reading!

Banned Book Week

Uncle Wildcat reading the kids a book under my portrait of Don Quixote

It's Banned Book Week, which for me is an invitation to revisit some of my favorite pieces of literature of all time.

If your reading list is running a little low, consider adding these to the to-read pile:

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1. The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood

Starting off the list, this was maybe the most important book I read during my teen years. It's not just a feminist manifesto, it's a dystopian future of the world we find ourselves perilously close to achieving.

It's no surprise to me at all how often this book has been banned. It's critical of a world that sees women as tools for the production of children, rather than human beings. And the more radical the religious elements in our country become, the more we see women treated as just that.

Every time a male politician makes a horrific, asinine statement about, way, women being the same as livestock, I want to smack them in the head with this book.

2. Howl, by Allen Ginsburg

I've never understood why Kerouac got all the Beat glory. If you want an adolescent to understand that poetry is moving, and that words have power, give them this book.

There are so many reasons people have given to ban this book. But it all comes down to one thing- this book? It scares the crap out of them. It has managed to remain so relevant and so deeply real that it feels like it could have been written today.

"To recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head..."

It could be about Tumblr.

3. Johnny Got His Gun, by Dalton Trumbo

This is a World War 1 protest novel. And probably the most fundamentally human book I've ever read.

The main character has survived the war, but barely. He's blind, and he can't speak, and his arms and legs have been blown off. But he's alive.

He's a living consciousness, unable to communicate, trapped with his own thoughts. He's just a boy. This book haunts me. And as tragic and beautiful his bittersweet remembrances of a girl back home, or a life where he could see the sky and stand and run, it's the last lines of the book that haunt me the most.

The message that civilizations create strong, healthy boys to blow into pieces, for no other reason that to blow each other into pieces... that's a story that still needs telling.

4. Harry Potter, by J.K. Rowling

Yeah, Harry Potter has been banned. And not because it's an addictive substance.

Some people like to claim that it promotes Satanism. Those people have obviously never read it. Some people like to claim it's anti-Christian. They've also obviously never read it- every wizard and witch in these books celebrates Christmas.

What it really promotes is imagination, individualism, and a sense of adventure. And those three characteristics together can be pretty dangerous.

5. Steal This Book, by Abbie Hoffman

Here's the thing about some banned books. I get it. I get why somebody didn't want people reading it. I get that some books, like this one, have genuinely dangerous information in them.

But banning them doesn't get rid of the information.

For those who haven't read it, "Steal This Book" includes instructions on how to make bombs and LSD.

It also taught me how to make yogurt, furniture, build a trap to catch the animals in my garden (although not the mice in my house), and dozens of other useful life lessons.

The whole point of the book is that information should be available to you, readily. And in a pre-internet age, it was hard to find this kind of how-to manual for off-the-grid living. Now, it's easier to google bomb making techniques than it is to find this book.

6. The Lorax, by Dr. Seuss

Yes, even the good doctor has been banned.

This story is so good. And still so relevant. We need to face up to what we've been doing to our planet since the beginning of the industrial revolution. And facing that is terrifying, because it we acknowledge that maybe not all progress has been good, maybe we'll have to abandon some of the modern conveniences we love so much.

The Onceler is every captain of industry, from Andrew Carnegie to Steve Jobs. And we need to recognize that our coal plants and our iPhones take a real toll on the world around us.

7. Cat's Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

Oh, how I love this book.

It's got all sorts of things in it that people love to ban, too. It mocks religion, it has sexual themes, there's the end of the world...

You know, it's a Vonnegut book. They pretty much all share those elements in common. And they're pretty much all brilliant.

The thing I love so much about this book in particular is that those elements are AT THEIR BEST. The end of the world is our own fault. The fake religion is probably one of the best religions in the history of humanity. And the sex?

I say this as somebody who has a lot to say about rape scenes: best rape scene ever. Why? Because the victim is immediately humanized, and has an opportunity to respond to her assailant- shaming him. And the whole scene is a paragraph long. There should be more books like that.



8. Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley

One of the greatest novellas ever.

I'm one of those obnoxious know-it-alls who hates hearing people confuse "Frankenstein" with "Frankenstein's Monster." If you're dressing up for Halloween by painting your face green, attaching bolts to your neck, and grunting... you are Frankenstein's Monster.

If you're dressed up for Halloween as a Victorian gentlemen carrying a heap of journals and science textbooks, you are Frankenstein.

And the brilliant thing about the book that the people who haven't read it don't understand... it's the doctor who's the really scary one.

9. Stranger in a Strange Land, by Robert A. Heinlein

Everything about this book, from the delightfully happy grasses that are supposed to be stepped on, to the cannibalism...

Everything in this book is wonderful.

When you have to invent a word for your story to be told, a word that means at once to understand, to accept, to learn and to love, that's a story that might be worth sharing.

Or banning, if that's your thing, I guess.

10. Don Quixote, by Miguel de Cervantes

I can't for the life of me imagine why this book is banned. It's hilarious, and poignant, and sweet, and romantic. Especially romantic.

And funny. Did anybody ever tell you how funny Don Quixote is? Because it is.

I read this book while M was going through chemo and radiation. At the time, I just wanted a big heavy book to read, I figured I'd be sitting in a lot of waiting rooms so I should have something that would DEFINITELY keep me occupied. It wasn't until much later I realized how incredibly appropriate the choice was.

It's one of my all time favorites now. I keep an illustration of Don Quixote framed in my living room.

My kids and I read banned books right underneath it.



You remember that facebook meme going around a few weeks ago? People listing ten of the books that stayed with them through the years?

How about everyone shares their favorite banned book this week, instead?

It's a Book!!!

Weighing in at 1lbs, 1oz, and making its debut bright and in the wee hours of this morning is the newest member of my family!

It's name? My Other Ex: Women's True Stories of Losing and Leaving Friends, and yes, it's kind of like my baby. In that I love it, and I'm carrying it with me everywhere, and I can't shut up about it.

And it's wonderful. And it's the best book. And LOOK! It has my eyes!

...well, not exactly. But the cover is the same color as my eyes, so it's pretty much the same thing.

Actually, it's the same color as my giant tattoo.

Let's just say there is DEFINITELY a family resemblance.

I'm so honored to be included in this anthology. The stories are riveting, ranging from the completely relatable to scenes that seem like they must be cut from some sort of movie.

Only there aren't a lot of movies about friendship breakups. Because we don't talk about them- we don't like to talk about the end of platonic love.

The more I read this book (I've read the whole thing two and a half times so far. It's that good.), the more I wonder why we as a culture don't ask these questions more often. We talk over and over again about BFFs, and we love stories, even tragic ones, about friends that remain close no matter what happens.

The First Wives Club, Thelma and Louise, Then and Now...

But what about the other side of the story of friendship? Because not every friendship is forever. But that doesn't make the love any less real.

This is a beautiful book. Not just because it's the color of my eyes and ink. (Although, yes, it is now my go-to accessory for absolutely everything.) It's a beautiful book because of the honesty and intensity inside it.

Go buy it! Read it! Buy it for a friend you haven't seen in years. Buy it for a friend you haven't seen in hours.

It's worth every bittersweet memory the stories drag up.

And for that, so much more than being included among the authors, I'm grateful.

Reinventing Your Fate - #Change #FindTheWords

As the school year begins, too many children are already falling behind. I am 1 of 30 bloggers helping #FindtheWords with @SavetheChildren to raise awareness of the need for early childhood education for all kids. I am participating in this social media campaign to highlight 30 words in 30 days -- to symbolize the 30 million fewer words that children from low-income homes hear by age 3.

Save the Children provides kids in need with access to books, essential learning support and a literacy-rich environment, setting them up for success in school and a brighter future. Learn more about Save the Children’s work in the US and around the world: http://www.savethechildren.org/site/c.8rKLIXMGIpI4E/b.6153159/k.C8D5/USA.htm

Read to the end for a Giveaway!

When I was about nine years old, I fell in love with the All-Of-A-Kind Family books.

I don't know how exactly they came into my hands, but they were the perfect blend of familiarity and fantasy. A pre-WWI family with five daughters living in New York, Jewish and American, wearing beautiful dresses but also destroying them as they climbed trees and hid in Papa's rag shop.

As a Jewish American girl with two sisters, living in New Jersey, I was in love. I fantasized about my parents having a gaggle of additional children- the idea of being the second oldest took root, and I thought it would be MUCH better than simply being in the middle. The stories the family in the book told about Elijah the prophet and the obviously archaic but still fascinating way girls weren't permitted to study Hebrew, which I began to take particular joy in doing at synagogue on Saturdays, stayed with me as I stayed up all night, reading and re-reading the stories.

And then I had the most incredible discovery- there were more All-Of-A-Kind Family books.

I snuggled under the covers to read the second, All-Of-A-Kind Family Downtown, and read with total obsession the story of the birth of the five sisters' new baby brother.

He was sick, and it seemed he might die. So one day, in the midst of all the worry, Papa takes the baby to the rabbi, to change his name. Papa explains that sometimes, when somebody is very sick, the only thing left to do is change their name. That way, when the angel of death comes looking for them, they'll be looking for the wrong person and pass them by.

Silly, I know. The idea that you can change your name and be so profoundly changed that your own fate can't find you. But it resonated with me.

It was around that time I had become not only an insomniac, but also depressed. As my childish depression deepened into something more profound, I kept thinking about that story. About changing your name and changing your destiny. And so when I was ten years old, I made the decision to change my name.

My grandmother mocked me. She would call me "Rachel," and I would answer, and she would point out that if I didn't want people to call me that I had to stop answering to it. So I did. From that point on, the only name I would answer to was my middle name.

I was determined to stop being Rachel. I was going to be somebody else. Somebody less frightened of being made fun of, somebody bolder and braver and more confident. To me, 'Rachel' was a shroud I'd been wearing my whole life, and had done nothing to make me happy. So I shrugged her off, and assumed the identity of my middle name, 'Lea,' who wore whatever the hell she wanted to instead of trying to fit in with the WASPy pre-teens in her girl scout troop. Claudia, from the Babysitter's Club, became my style icon. I cut off my long hair and embraced the "New Jan Brady" style 'fro that puffed up in its wake. And then my family moved.

I embraced every aspect of this change. I was a new person, with a new look, a new outlook on life, and now- a new location. I showed up for my first day of middle school with my hair puffed in a halo around my head, horn rim styled pastel glasses, a floor length gold skirt, and a blue cropped faux turtleneck t-shirt.

And while it was true that everything on the outside had changed- my appearance, my name, my location, my school... things were fundamentally the same. I was still woefully unpopular, still the butt of ceaseless jokes and the recipient of incessant bullying, and still profoundly unhappy.

But I was more confident in who I was. I was a person who had defined myself, and although my attempt to change my life by changing myself hadn't exactly worked the wanted it to, it had worked in some way. I had, mysteriously, kind of grown up a little.

I was changed by the act of changing.


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Books had a profound impact on me during my childhood, but not every child is so lucky. Having books in the house helps children learn not just to read, but to appreciate and cultivate language. 65% of young children in need have no access to books, and more than two thirds of poverty level households have no books appropriate for children in the house.

By the age of three, children from low-income homes hear on average 30 million fewer words than their peers, which puts them at a disadvantage when they start school- a cognitive delay of eighteen months.

But we can change that.

Join in the #FindTheWords campaign! If you see a picture of my word, "Change," tweet it with the hashtags #FindTheWords and #Change. Help raise awareness of what Save The Children is doing to help kids reach their potential, and move out of poverty.

...if all the student in low-income countries learned basic reading skills, 171 million people could be raised out of poverty.

Can you #FindtheWords? #Change @SavetheChildren pic.twitter.com/9h8DHD5GG4
— Lea Grover (@bcmgsupermommy) August 8, 2014

You can help.

And to thank you, I'll be able to give one of you a $100 gift card, from Save The Children. All you have to do is comment on this post, telling me about when reading has changed you. Or helped you change the world for the better. (Please leave your email address in the comment, a link to somewhere I can find you via social media. Facebook, twitter, the usual.)

#FindTheWords. Be the #Change you wish to see in the world.