OP-ED: Christmas couple goals: Woman’s rom-com holiday fantasies test her interfaith marriage

Published by The Baltimore Sun on Dec. 9, 2022. For the published version, click here.

When I was single and in my 20s, the winter holiday months were filled with angst, loneliness and feelings of emptiness.

Then I met my now husband and rejoiced at finding my person. It finally meant the end of all holiday-induced torment. Sure, we’d have arguments along the way, but the Christmas season would be filled with joy and cherished memories and only the happiest of holiday RomComs.

Fast forward a decade.

Last year my husband treated our two small children and me to the ultimate Christmas destination—Europe. We spent 10 days in Austria visiting holiday markets, drinking mulled wine and enjoying all the wintry treats.

That is until Christmas Eve.

Having been raised Episcopalian, I dragged my family through the cold to a small Anglican church nestled in the heart of Vienna. Following the service, we ventured down the street to a nearby boutique hotel for some Christmas cocktails and a Shirley Temple for our 7-year-old daughter.

As we sat in the cozy lounge of the hotel, nestled near a roaring fireplace and fir tree glistening with gold and red trimmings, I looked lovingly at my husband. Next to him sat our 10-month-old son in a tartan jumper, propped up against a velvet pillow, gnawing on raw cucumber sticks.

I quietly rejoiced to myself for a Christmas season well done as I soaked up all the magical spirit of that moment. That is until my husband sighed and blurted, “When will this holiday finally end?”

The winter season has become a slight source of dissension in our family and it has something to do with my husband being Jewish and me not being Jewish.

To be fair, he has put up with a lot over the years. Despite his best efforts to embrace Santa Claus for the sake of our children, he has a breaking point (though in my defense, I did give him the option of a Jesus-focused Christmas when we first began our holiday negotiations).

In turn, I have fully embraced Judaism (sans converting), even if I fail to accurately pronounce most Hebrew words and holidays—sometimes on purpose. I have hosted more Passover Seders than I can count and regularly make Challah from scratch for Friday Shabbat dinners. In fact, his father once insisted I send my mother-in-law my recipe for brisket—an accolade I plan to engrave on my tombstone one day, or perhaps hers.

In many respects, it is far easier for me to embrace Judaism. Though Jewish food, aside from bagels, is not necessarily the most sought after, all Jewish holidays include something delicious—whether it be flourless chocolate cake and chocolate-covered matzo at Passover, fried latkes and donuts at Hanukkah, or wine. There is always wine.

When we got married, I was certain I would be the one to sacrifice the most. Traditionally for me, Easter means hunting in the backyard for colorfully decorated eggs and treats. For my husband, it means searching around the dining room for a piece of dried-up ceremonial cracker.

It was presumptuous to assume embracing Christmas would be the most ideal. We get the cheer and sparkly twinkle lights, whereas most Jewish holidays are centered around persecution, slavery, or a bunch of deadly plagues.

Then I remembered a time when I had come home to find my husband in the kitchen shredding potatoes and frying latkes. Hanukkah music blared in the background as he stood by the stove, lightly dancing while he worked.

It was not the cooking of Jewish food or his wanting to celebrate that broke me down, but the music. It was thundering, brassy and head-splitting—perhaps reflective of most Jewish gatherings.

It was around the third chorus from a Hanukkah-inspired cover of Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” that I accidentally shouted, “Make it stop!”

I watched as his face melted into disappointment at my inability to spend one day in December without Vince Guaraldi.

It was his time to shine, and I had shattered his Hanukkah spirit.

So last year, as I sat on that couch in that beautiful hotel in one of the most festive cities during Christmas, I too was heartbroken. How could this person across from me—who willingly knew when he took his vows that Christmas would dominate our December—make such a dispiriting comment?

Interfaith marriages always bring a myriad of difficulties, and my husband and I have learned there is no easy answer to how we move through the winter holiday season. The stress storm is inevitable despite our best intentions, though I am learning to shield him where I can, at least until Thanksgiving has passed.

Though I will forever be grateful for that Christmas we spent in Austria, I am confident 10 years into our marriage was too soon to subject him to such merriment, even if it was his idea.

This year Hanukkah and Christmas overlap, so it will be a season of compromise to the very end. I will mindfully incorporate latkes and dreidels so he feels represented. And in turn, my husband will limit the Hanukkah parodies with boisterous shouting.

In my 20s I had wanted nothing more than to share Christmas with someone who loved me. I found someone who loves me enough to be comfortable complaining about it, and who lets me complain about his holiday too.

OPINION: December is the Merriest, Unless you have an Elf on the Shelf

Originally published on January 2, 2021 in The Capital Gazette, titled, “Commentary: 2020 was too much for an Elf on the Shelf.”

Even in 2020, a year filled with misery and disappointment for all, the holiday season is filled with a magical hope—the promise of Santa Claus, a delicious supply of baked goods, and the anticipation of presents.

But, lurking among the beautiful mystery of the season is an air of torment. For out there, among the twinkly lights, the pine-scented homes, and the cookie-covered kitchens is another holiday mystery.

It’s a small mystery. One with a suspicious smile, and a lurking gaze of judgement that only a small child understands.

His name—Elf on the Shelf.

He’s followed my five year old daughter to hotels, flights across the country, and a new home. He goes where we go, like a tiny stalker we cannot escape.

For many, the Elf is an exciting part of the holiday season, bringing to life creativity for parents excited to share with their children the magical spirit of Christmas.

But for others, The Elf is an unwelcome focus.

Elaborate scenes are forcibly staged, countless lies are shared surrounding the rules of the Elf, and resentment takes over as we remember mid-sleep that the Elf needs to be moved before our children beat us out of bed each morning.

Children love the Elf. His smirky little smile, luring them into trouble—but they can’t be fooled.

For others, like my daughter, the Elf portrays a different mystery. He’s a lurker and suspect. His presence is a confusing one met with joyful mystery, but also the threat of a ruined Christmas morning.

The week before Thanksgiving, my daughter and I were driving in the car. She had gotten into trouble earlier that day for yelling at me, which lead to her calling me, “The worst mother ever.”

As we drove along in the car, she mumbled to herself, “I hate Christmas,” and with that, silently burst into tears.

It was one of the saddest moments I’ve experienced thus far as a parent. Not an easy feat in 2020—the year my daughter has watched everything shutdown, and been told twice that her Kindergarten class is switching to remote.

Elf on the Shelf isn’t just some creepy doll we parents joke about on social media. It’s a real life tiny critter, out to report back to Santa every flaw, mistake, and mishap our children have made—and that’s a lot of pressure for a five year old.

Most children understand the humor and suspense of this tiny red fellow—but in a year full of sorrow and frustration for all, the Elf is more than a monitor of good or bad behavior.

He’s as symbolic of the holiday season as Santa. But rather than offer sprinklings of joy and hope, the Elf adds doubt—instilling fear in many children who have seen playground access disappear overnight, and schools shut down with little notice.

2020 has been rough on us all, but driving in the car that day, I finally realized just how hard this year has been on my daughter.

Elf on the Shelf represents more than the prospect of presents at the end of December. He encompasses the spirit of 2020—and it’s not pretty.

What should otherwise be a cause for excitement and joy, is laced with pang and confusion. Where is the Elf hiding today? What if virtual school frustrates me so much, I pitch a fit and get in trouble? What if I can’t sit still in my chair during my Zoom call, and the Elf tells Santa?

It’s too much for some of these smaller children—the expectation of perfection.

When we got home, my daughter immediately went to her room on her own accord. I gave her a little time, and then went upstairs to check on her. Outside her door sat a note she had pushed under her door and into the hallway.

It read, “Chrisms is the wrst halluday for me. I hat chrisme. I do not want to have Crismis.” Her note also included several sad faces she had drawn, all containing tears.

As if 2020 wasn’t bad enough for us all—my five year old has also received the memo.

I picked up the note and went into her room. There she sat, on her bed holding her stuffed animal. She looked up at me, weepy eyed, and asked if it was okay that she doesn’t like Christmas.

I asked her, “Is it because of the Elf?” She nodded. I added, “Is it because you’re afraid the Elf will tell Santa that you got in trouble?” Her little head bobbed up and down.

I gave my daughter a mask-free hug and assured her, at the end of the day Mom and Dad have the final say and our opinion is the only opinion Santa cares about. That the Elf purely visits to see that she’s trying, and Santa understands not everyday will be perfect, and that is okay. All that matters is that she tries.

And I realized—her fear is the fear we are all experiencing this year, regardless of age. No one is performing their best, no one is living their best life, but all we can do is keep trying.

OP-ED: All The Lies I Heard While Pregnant

This post was originally published on MOTHER Magazine on October 5, 2017.

My mother often reminds me that I share too much. My husband says I just talk a lot. I love to connect with others by sharing my personal stories and, of course, passing along my infinite amount of knowledge. While pregnant with my now two-year-old daughter, I enjoyed connecting with fellow mom friends, both ahead of me and behind me in the pregnancy and newborn process. It was a new way to connect with each other on a deeper level. And, by deeper, I am being polite about the gritty details we shared about postpartum recovery.

But, here is what I did not enjoy: the lies. The lies about pregnancy and the lies about caring for a newborn. I was fed an endless amount of personal falsehoods from everyone—friends, family, even random strangers on the street. Here are some of them.

Breastfeeding will take the baby weight off

No, no it did not. Maybe I did it wrong. It took me two years after the birth of my daughter to take off the baby weight. It wasn’t achieved by exercise or pumping in between feedings to stimulate extra milk production. One day, I decided to make my husband a truly superb homemade meal for dinner, just to show him how much I care and love him. And, because I’m just an awesome wife. I made homemade bison meatballs for dinner. Unfortunately, a few of the meatballs were not cooked completely, and naturally, they were the two I ate. So, no, nursing for 14 months did not take off the weight I had gained from our beautiful little child. It was food poisoning, and it was gruesome.

An epidural will be your best friend

Two weeks after the birth of our daughter, I got up at 3 a.m. to take her downstairs to sit in the living room, and pump and feed her; we were co-sleeping at the time. I missed the first step, and pitched down the flight of stairs. Thankfully, our daughter was completely untouched. I, however, suffered from a broken shoulder blade in a break that is only possible by sheer impact from say, falling down a flight of hardwood stairs, while curled into a ball to protect your infant daughter from injury, or worse. So, no, my best friend was not an epidural. It was the cocktail of prescription drugs given to me by the ER doctor after falling down a flight of stairs, resulting in a broken shoulder blade, and rows of bruises down my legs, arms, and back.

Babyproof everything!

I was very overwhelmed by what to babyproof. Family would come over and point out the sharp edges, the electrical outlets, and the death traps. In fact, we have a bar with crystal cocktail glasses in our living room. I spent months brainstorming how to protect the crystal without turning the bar into an eye-sore. In the end, I did nothing. But, guess what? Infants don’t do anything! In my opinion, there’s no need to babyproof until your child is crawling, or even walking. Here’s my biggest babyproofing secret of all: the word “no”—problem solved and zero dollars spent.

Your body craves the foods it needs

Does it, really? Because, I spent three straight months craving margaritas and bagels with cream cheese. And, by cream cheese, I mean about one cup of cream cheese per bagel.

You’ll love feeling your body grow with the miracle of life

I’m sorry, but that part was totally weird for me. Personally, I just loved that I no longer had to suck in my tummy. Sure, I looked about a month further along into my pregnancy, but it was amazing! No more loose-fitted shirts to cover the chub on my short-waisted body. I embraced fitted shirts for the first time in my life! If I had known more about the post-pregnancy waist, I might have embraced it a bit more.

You’ll be exhausted all of the time

I really wasn’t. I realize this makes me an anomaly, but I honestly was not that tired. I was horrifically nauseous and suffered from morning sickness almost daily, even up into labor. There was nothing I could do to pass the time except sleep. Out of sheer torture, I went to bed around 7 p.m. every night, praying not to wake up feeling like I actually had enjoyed a bucket of margaritas the night before. So, perhaps I was just really well-rested.

Random people will touch your belly

This really didn’t happen often. I attribute it to my general horror of being so uncomfortable and nauseous, thereby scaring off all those who wanted to touch my belly. Two weeks before I went into labor, I was in the market and an older, chubby gentleman, resembling Santa Claus, walked up to me in the produce section, and flicked my stomach. So, no, random people will not touch your belly. If you’re like me, they’ll flick it like they would a cigarette.

You’ll want your hair short, otherwise the baby will grab it constantly

This was not true for me. For some, it might be true. But, for me, it was the milk that would get into my hair while breastfeeding, thereby revealing to my husband how many days it had been since I last washed it. So, yes, you’ll want short hair, so that the evidence of your last shower remains an unsolved mystery.

Having a baby will change your life

A baby will change your life only if you want it to change. My husband and I consciously decided not to let our firstborn change too much. After the first week of having a baby, we strapped her into the Boba Wrap, and walked down the street for a glass of wine. We took her everywhere. The secret to babies is that they sleep. Other than diapers, they require very little. And, if you breastfeed, they’re even more portable. That being said, a toddler will change your life. Especially a fierce, strong-willed toddler obsessed with controlling all aspects of your life and hers. So, no, a baby may not change your life—it’s when she or he is mobile, bossy, and opinionated that your life will change.

Note, my editor published the article replacing the word "untruths" with "lies." But who are we kidding--they're lies, all lies! So I changed them back to post the article here, in its original form as I first intended. ;)