Scary Mommy's Guide to Surviving the Holidays Read online

  “What is Christmas?” my kid asks on our walk to the bus as a veiled way of finding out why we don’t have lights or reindeer or a bedazzled trampoline.

  I see the Christmas explanation options in front of me, ranging from superficially vague to historical overshare. The issue with superficially vague is that if I don’t provide a good explanation about why we have the darkest, dullest house in all the land, then he will surely grow up to become a resentful, self-hating Jew who marries a Seventh-day Adventist just to spite me.

  I tell him about this Jewish man who became the leader of another religion. I tell him he was born on December 25 (that date being the subject of much debate, but I skip that part) and I tell him that people celebrate his birthday on that day—which is Christmas. Then I tell him there are lots of religions, and I start to ramble on about how wonderful it is that we can all believe different things and celebrate different holidays and I realize I’ve lost him to the candy canes on the window of the next house and probably to his future Seventh-day Adventist spouse.

  “I wish we had lights,” he confesses.

  “But who has it better than we do?” I say. “Our neighbors across the street can’t even see their lights from their house. They have to walk outside to see their own lights. We can look at their decorations from our house whenever we want! We don’t even have to go outside!”

  “I don’t like the people,” he says, meaning the glowing plastic Jewish couple with their messiah baby. “But I like all the lights,” he adds. “They’re like stars.”

  I panic. Clearly, Christmas is winning. I mean, of course it’s winning. Lights on houses, sparkling Christmas trees set in the middle of a Christmas present moat, some jolly old man taking requests without actually considering if you’ve been naughty or nice—all compared to a B-list Jewish consolation holiday.

  On balance, Hanukkah sucks.

  I add in a moment of panic: “You know, Christmas only lasts one day, and you’ll get EIGHT DAYS of presents for Hanukkah!”

  He gives me a smile, and I know that I’ve scored points even if I scored off of a foul.

  And then we are at the bus stop, and I kiss him good-bye.

  He calls back to me from the top of the bus stop steps, “I can’t wait until EIGHT days of Hanukkah presents!!” And the little gentile children turn to him with envy in their clear, blue Whoville eyes.

  25

  KILLER ROCKY ROAD FUDGE

  by Alisa Schindler

  Every year on the holidays, my family, my extended family and even my husband’s family all converge at my mother and stepfather’s. I am thankful for us all to be together . . . and, equally so, that I don’t have to cook.

  The one thing I’m responsible for is a dessert and somehow I’ve gained a reputation for having some sort of baking prowess, despite not being much of a baker at all. The secret? My rocky road fudge. It looks like I slaved all day, when in reality it took all of ten minutes. In the spirit of giving, I’d like to share it with you.

  1 12-ounce package plus 1 cup semisweet chocolate chips

  1 cup crunchy peanut butter—or, if you have children like mine, smooth

  1 Tablespoon butter

  1 package minimarshmallows

  Line a greased baking pan with plastic wrap.

  In a saucepan combine the chips, peanut butter, and butter. Cook over medium heat 2–3 minutes or until ingredients are melted—stir constantly! Then immediately remove from heat.

  Stir in minimarshmallows and pour into the lined pan. Spread evenly, cover with more plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least three hours.

  Keep it in there till you’re ready to serve, then just remove plastic wrap and slice nice little squares. It’ll cut through easily and you’ll be fascinated how amazing it looks and tastes. Seriously, people will fall all over you.

  Unless they have peanut allergies, in which case this would be a very bad thing. So please make sure to let everyone there know that there is peanut butter in the dessert.

  Trust me, bring these and everyone will be thanking you and you’ll be thanking me. And isn’t that what this holiday is about?

  26

  THE BEST GIFTS TO BUY FOR PARENTS YOU HATE

  by Jill Smokler

  You know those parents you hate? Not the ones you really hate, whose kids bully yours or are the cause of hours worth of tears and angst; I mean the ones you kind of hate.

  The mother who looked at you with scorn after learning your cupcakes came from a box. The ones who pay ten dollars a tooth, making your tooth fairy look like a cheapskate. The smug, think-they’re-perfect-and-try-to-rub-it-in-your-face-every-chance-they-can parents. The ones who deserve to be kind of hated. You’d never wish harm upon those parents—of course not!—but they do have it coming. And you’re going to passive-aggressively give it to them, in the form of seemingly innocent gifts for their offspring. I present you with a selection of thoughtful gifts that, while kids will love, are also sure to piss off those children’s parents completely. Which makes them absolutely perfect . . .

  1. LEGOs. Every parent knows that there is nothing more painful than stepping on a LEGO at 3:00 a.m. while you innocently stumble your way to the bathroom. But what about during waking hours? The secret to picking the most annoying LEGOs is to get a set aged at least three years older than the child it’s intended for. This way, not only will you inflict surefire physical pain on the parent, but you’ll also gift the annoyance of having to spend an hour assembling a toy that their child will dissolve into tears over any time it comes apart. As it’s made to do.

  2. Glitter. Gifting a one-pound jar of glitter, commonly known as the herpes of the art world, would be a tad too obvious, so mask it in an elaborate art set. Throw in some paper, scissors, and glue, knowing that although the paper will soon be recycled, the glitter will live on forever within the carpet fibers and air ducts of the home FOREVER.

  3. A Build-A-Bear Workshop Gift Certificate. Your $25 gift may buy the actual bear, but the parent will be stuck accessorizing that bear in pure bear hell. A bear cheerleader! No, a fireman. No, a football star!! A doctor! A dentist! A cowgirl!!! The debate will go on for hours, over every detail right down to the bear’s toes. Best of all, it will almost certainly end in tears unless the parent is prepared to pay a hundred bucks in extras like glasses, roller skates, and crutches. So you’ve either inflicted a tantrum of epic proportions on them in the middle of an overcrowded shopping mall, or caused them to spend a small fortune just to shut their kid up. Until Little Sibling sees Bigger Sibling’s Build-A-Bear and decides he or she wants one too. Then they’re completely fucked.

  4. A Collection of Joke Books. Want to know what’s more annoying than a kid telling stupid jokes, the punch line to which they don’t understand? Nothing, that’s what.

  5. Anything musical. Gifting another child with a musical instrument is the artistic equivalent of giving a child a live goldfish as a carnival prize: you just don’t do it. That is, unless your intent is to piss off the parent. If you do choose to go this ballsy route, prepare for retaliation.

  Of course, you could always go the annoying-as-hell battery-operated toy route. If you do, just be sure to forget the batteries. Obviously.

  27

  FIVE WAYS KIDS WILL TOTALLY RUIN THE HOLIDAYS FOR YOU

  by Amanda Mushro

  It’s the most magical and wonderful time of year, and you, being the supermom that you are, want to make this holiday season memorable and spectacular for your kids. You want to deck the halls and rock around the Christmas tree!

  The problem is, much like the way your kids have ruined your ability to run up the stairs without peeing yourself a little, they will totally ruin the holidays for you. How, you ask?

  1. They will ruin your Christmas card. You may have the most photogenic children to ever grace the pages of Facebook, and you’re not too shabby
of a photographer when you’re snapping a quick picture at home on your iPhone. However, the minute you dress those kids up in festive holiday gear and try to pose the family on the front porch for the perfect photo to don your Christmas card, all hell breaks loose. Faster than you can say “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” someone will be dirty, someone else is crying, someone has their eyes closed, and you are sweating and yelling, “Put your arm around your sister and act like you like her!”

  2. They won’t perform on demand. While driving around in your swagger wagon, your children burst into a perfect and adorable rendition of “Jingle Bells”—complete with perfectly timed and coordinated hand movements! But get them around family and friends and say, “Hey kids, how about we sing ‘Jingle Bells’?”—it’s radio silence. Seriously, my dog is a better performer than my kids in front of a crowd.

  3. They don’t appreciate gifts. You spent weeks searching for the perfect gift for each kid. If need be, you would stand in line for hours with the rest of the crazies during Black Friday to get the one gift your kiddo has put at the top of their Christmas wish list. Even though Santa will totally get credit for your hard work, you sit back and watch your kids rip through your perfect wrapping in five minutes. Once the ribbons and wrapping settle, you see one kid playing in a box and another kid has the audacity to ask you, “Is that it?”

  4. They don’t appreciate holiday traditions.

  Me: Let’s take a drive to see Christmas lights, kids.

  Kids: I’m hungry. Where are my snacks?

  Me: Let’s walk thought the neighborhood and sing carols.

  Kids: I’m too cold. Where are my snacks?

  Me: Let’s watch It’s a Wonderful Life!

  Kids: No, put on Monsters, Inc. . . . again. And grab me some snacks too.

  Me: Look! We’re next in line to see Santa!

  Kids: No! I don’t want to see Santa anymore! Let’s get a pretzel.

  5. They won’t eat your special holiday foods. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire? Puh-leaze. You’re lucky if your little angels agree to anything that’s not A) Cheetos or B) something that comes in a squeeze bottle, and you think you’re going to be able to convince them into your patented roasted chestnut sausage stuffing? Oh, honey. But if you don’t believe me, just go ahead and try giving your kids that special virgin eggnog recipe you spent an hour devising specially for them, and see if they don’t look at it disdainfully and ask for Yoo-hoo.

  And then, just when you want to pull a Grinch, they totally redeem themselves. You’re at the end of your holiday garland and vow to never go through all this trouble to make their holidays merry and bright again. And poof! Just like a Christmas miracle, they morph into the sweet Linus at the end of A Charlie Brown Christmas, and you just want to squeeze them and make the holidays last a little longer.

  28

  OUR PARENTS DIDN’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THE SANTA LIE, AND WE SHOULDN’T, EITHER

  by Maria Guido

  If you’ve convinced yourself that there’s some way you can perpetuate the Santa myth without becoming a giant fucking liar—let it go. You can’t. You will not make it through the holiday season without sitting on a huge throne of lies—and that’s okay. No one, and I repeat no one I know harbors hate for their parents because of the Santa lie. So stop worrying about it. Seriously, stop. Our parents never worried about this stuff—I guarantee it.

  When I was old enough to care, my parents told me there was a Santa. It’s a story I accepted without question, because the concept of someone bringing me gifts once a year was rewarding enough to block out the creep factor of a fat old white guy sneaking into my house. I don’t remember being told detailed stories throughout the holiday season. This was the driving narrative: there’s an old guy who lives in the North Pole, surrounded by little people. You can send him a letter and tell him what you want and if you’re good enough, he’ll swing by your house on Christmas Eve. I was directed to the Claymation Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer Christmas special. That was enough. I never questioned anything about the holiday season or Santa’s role in my life until one fateful night in the early ’80s.

  It was Christmas Eve. I was six years old. I was in bed, alternating between pretending I was asleep to fool my mother, who was periodically checking in on me, and jumping to the window convinced I could make out Rudolph’s nose in the night sky. I heard my parents stirring downstairs and quietly made my way to the hall to see what was going on. We had one of those two-story homes that were very popular in California in the ’80s—a giant vaulted ceiling reigning over a staircase that culminated in a landing you could look over from the second floor into the living room. I did a military shrug to the iron rods and peered under the banister, down to the floor below. My parents were discussing something I couldn’t quite make out. My mom was placing a stuffed koala under the tree.

  I remember thinking, Cute, shrugging, and going back to bed.

  I woke in the morning to a lit tree, Santa’s cookies gone, and my mother excitedly showing me what Santa had brought to reward me for being such a good girl all year: a stuffed koala.

  I can’t remember exactly what I was thinking at that moment, but I’m assuming it was something like, My parents are lying assholes.

  I sat down, defeated, and focused on the wall in front of me. Santa wasn’t real, my parents were not to be trusted, and that koala was a totally dumb gift.

  I remember being specifically dismayed about the koala thing, but I don’t remember there being a running tally of all of the lies my parents had told to perpetuate the Santa myth, because there just weren’t that many. I accepted the Santa narrative and the few tall tales my parents told me: that Santa was a man who would make his way to our house once a year and that I could somehow visit him at the mall.

  Seeing Santa sitting on a throne in the mall once a year didn’t present a quandary to my six-year-old brain. I guess had I thought about it, I could have deduced that there were other malls and other Santas—but I never did. Oakridge Mall in suburban San Jose was the only mall I knew. The Santa who sat in its glorious courtyard was the only one I would ever see. I didn’t question why or how Santa had the time to stop in a shitty mall in a young Silicon Valley. I didn’t think about the fact that he had clones all over the land, and what that meant for his credibility.

  A couple decades later, I’m already totally lying to my child, and I am 100 percent okay with it. If I do such an amazing job at parenting that the only thing this kid has to mention at therapy is some Santa betrayal, I’ll consider that a win. A big win.

  To be honest, I lie all the time because I sincerely feel I’ve earned that right, what with all the keeping my kids alive and wiping their asses and such. Hopefully my kid won’t hold it against me when he catches me with the proverbial koala in my hands.

  29

  SIX REASONS TO LOVE HANUKKAH

  by Lily Read

  1. Latkes. There is only one number one reason to love Hanukkah, and that reason is latkes. The delicious fried potato pancakes of happiness make their appearance only once a year, so load them up with applesauce or sour cream and eat up.

  2. Playing Dreidel. Gambling isn’t always encouraged at family get-togethers, so don’t miss out on the chance to leave dinner richer than you came in.

  3. Eight Nights of Presents. So much less pressure than Christmas; if you strike out one night, no big deal. (Thanks for the socks, Mom.) There’s always tomorrow!

  4. Hanukkah Gelt. Chocolate-filled “coins” that can be gambled while playing dreidel and used as bribery to help your kids clean the wax off the menorah. Who doesn’t like chocolate money?

  5. “The Hanukkah Song” by Adam Sandler. Obviously.

  6. The Story of Hanukkah. One day’s worth of oil lasting for eight is a way more believable miracle than a fat man with a beard and some magical reindeer somehow being able to distribute presents to kids
all across the globe in one night. Right?

  30

  SEASONAL COCKTAILS FOR MOMS

  by Sharon Green

  THE TERRIBLE TWO SHOT. Two shots of raspberry vodka—actually, vanilla—nooo! I really wanted the raspberry—no, wait, ORANGE! Garnish with pieces of gingerbread cookies that your kid won’t eat because they’re “broken.”

  NURSING MOM’S APPLE PIE MOCKTAIL. Mother’s Milk tea, a splash of apple juice, a dash of nutmeg, a twist of lime, served in an upturned breast pump cone, because, let’s face it, those things are just begging to be repurposed as martini glasses.

  MULLING IT OVER CIDER. Wondering if you should have another child? Pour yourself a steamy, hot glass of delicious spiked mulled cider. If you can finish it while it’s still hot without interruptions, you may be ready to handle another baby.

  SNOW DAZE. Hot chocolate, Kahlua, Amaretto. Drink both before and after the kids ask you to go sledding. For the thirty-seventh fucking time.

  PEPPERMINT PATTY CAKE. To get you in the spirit to be playmate-in-chief this holiday season: peppermint schnapps, crème de cacao, and splash of seltzer. Each time your kid says, “I’m bored,” take a sip.