Saranity Now!

This is my six year old’s school lunch for tomorrow.

Don’t even ask about the shredded cheese.

Yes, it’s still Passover.

Your responses to these statements likely are either: “Oh, you’re not keeping kosher for Passover this year?” “So what? That’s what we do all of Passover anyway” or “Huh? Passover?”

In previous years, I likely would have fallen into the first camp (ugh, I’m judgy. Even I hate me for it).

I grew up in an observant conservative Jewish family (conservative when you use it to describe Judaism basically means the step between orthodox and reform. It has NOTHING to do with conservative politics) and we were more observant than pretty much every other family I knew. We kept kosher in the house (but not out). My parents have five sets of dishes and silverware. Daily meat and milk sets, Passover meat and milk sets, and a set of china and silver (meat) for holidays.

But my mother always said, “You have to decide how crazy you want to make yourself” in reference to our observance and therefore we were allowed to get takeout if we ate it off paper plates. Which was still more than any of the other Jewish families I knew growing up did.

Passover, however, was non-negotiable.

I remember spring break trips to Florida where our lunches would consist of french fries and ice cream, because that was all we could find that didn’t involve forbidden ingredients. I’m old. This was before Ashkenazi (eastern European in origin) Jews adopted Sephardic (Spanish and Portuguese in origin) Jews’ Passover laws of allowing corn, beans, and rice.

Of course, we never complained, because french fries and ice cream still sounds like the best lunch in the world and we thought it was such a treat.

In fact, 2020 was the only year of my life when I did not keep kosher for Passover, entirely because I was a million months pregnant and therefore relying completely on Instacart for groceries and we just couldn’t find enough of what we’d need to get through the week.

So why does my six year old have a sandwich in his lunch for tomorrow?

I could have fought with him about the necessity of peanut butter and jelly on matzah. I could have sent yogurt and other things like that. And I did convince him to take macaroons instead of cookies for dessert.

But there are two bigger issues at play here and my mom heart couldn’t do it.

Number 1: He is the only Jewish kid in his class.

This is a pain I know all too well. There were about four Jewish kids in my grade (and none of us liked each other) until I got to college. (At which point I suffered from major culture shock the first time a new Jewish friend dragged me to Hillel. Who were these people? Why did they sing so much? I felt as lost as I had as the lone Jew.)

But he came home multiple days in December asking me why his friends didn’t understand that we don’t celebrate Christmas. He’s got an incredibly nice class and they asked real, genuine questions, but it still hurt my heart that at five (then) he had to be the different kid. Individuality is great, but being the only different one is hard even as an adult.

With that said, our next door neighbors have a little girl who is two weeks younger than Jacob and his best friend. And to her credit, he told me that every time ANYONE mentioned Christmas at school, she stood up and said, “AND HANUKKAH TOO” to make sure he was included.

BEST. NEIGHBORS. EVER.

But I don’t want him to have to explain all week what he’s eating and why it’s different. ESPECIALLY right after spring break.

Which brings us to reason #2.

Number 2: We’ve been dealing with some school anxiety. Another situation I know all too well.

His teacher is an absolute goddess (seriously, I went in as the “mystery reader” one day and this woman deserves three times what I make. I may have the same title as her as a teacher, but we do insanely different jobs.) and he’s been adjusting beautifully, but the first days back from an extended break are hard. And opening your lunch box to something you don’t want and have to explain to your curious friends on the first day back just feels like too much for a kindergartener with anxiety.

My mother still teases me that I took the same lunch to school every day up through high school. If you also grew up with anxiety, you’re probably nodding and remembering your own comfort lunch. Six year old also brings the same lunch daily (not the same one I had. Mine was definitely not this fancy, although I DO write a note on a napkin with stickers for him every day, which my mother also did, all the way through the end of high school. And she sent one with my dad to give me on my first day of college.) and not just because I’m too lazy to switch it up. It’s like rewatching shows. Repetition and routine are comforting for everyone, whether you have anxiety or not.

So as I made out my grocery list last night, I called my husband over and said I thought we should send the kids to school with their normal lunches. He immediately agreed (his family is less observant than mine. We had a conversation before we got married about how we would observe holidays to make sure we’d be on the same page. He didn’t want to keep kosher in the house, but agreed to observe the holidays as best we could) and I added bread to the list. We won’t eat it, and the kids will continue to observe Passover at home, but for the next three days, they can have normal school lunches.

Do I feel guilty? Yes. It’s me. I feel guilty when I open my eyes in the morning.

But I feel less guilty than I would have if I sent him in with a lunch that would have made his anxiety and school worse for him.

And the reality is that with flexibility, I think he’s more likely to appreciate Judaism as he grows than he would if it was presented with fixed rigidity.

I come back to my mother’s words frequently now that I’m making religious decisions for my children. And there’s plenty I drive myself crazy over (like baking challahs and hamantaschen with the kids to teach them about the holidays). But my own observance isn’t based in fear or guilt. It’s based in the comfort of rituals and routines and the knowledge that religion can fit into my life the way I need it to and that that doesn’t look the same from year to year or even day to day.

And like one of my favorite Peloton instructors reminds me at the beginning of every class, “All lifts, all enhancements are optional. You can always pull back.” I think that applies in a lot of areas of life.

Will he bring matzah for lunch next year? I don’t know. And that’s okay too.

Author life, Non Mom Life

Springsteen tickets go on sale today. And for the first time, I may not go.

July 26, 2022July 26, 2022 Sara Confino

Springsteen tickets go on sale today for DC. And for the first time since 2003, I don’t know what I’m going to do about that.

Normally, I’d be preparing ahead of time. Rebooting my computer, a chromebook, my phone, and getting my husband to do the same with his devices. Historically, I’ve done better in the app than on the computer, but it’s best to be ready for anything. Make sure my credit cards are updated in my Ticketmaster account. Coordinate which shows my parents want and get some friends to help as well.

But today, I don’t know that I’m buying tickets. Not with the price hike.

I set a limit for Springsteen on Broadway, which my husband promptly ignored and bought us better seats for more than I was comfortable spending. And while I was happy to go, we had a conversation about listening to what I say after that, because we went way beyond the price point that I was comfortable at.

In previous years, GA tickets (for which you would enter a lottery system to wind up down front), cost about $100. That went up to $150 in 2016. And with Ticketmaster fees added in and a second ticket for my husband, that meant we were looking at around $450 for a show. At that rate, I wasn’t doing what I did when I was single in 2012 and going to four shows in the same week.

Now, a single GA ticket is $450. After Ticketmaster fees, that’s probably $600. Add in a second ticket and we’re at $1200. Add a babysitter (I was pregnant in 2016 and had to convince a VERY kind security person to let me take crackers into Nats Park so I wouldn’t throw up) and with how long Bruce plays, we’re looking at $1350. For a single show. And that’s IF we can get them at face value, which with the Platinum pricing fiasco, is a slim chance.

Yes, I’m a bestselling author now (that feels so weird to say), but that’s not covering enough to justify that price point. We need a new car soon. Our kitchen desperately needs a makeover. And eventually, my kids are going to need to go to college.

I’m going part-time at school this year, mostly to get my five year old to kindergarten in the morning, which we’re able to do because we went from paying $42,000 a year in daycare/preschool to $28,000 a year and because of the books. But I still can’t spend 3-4 weeks of grocery money on a single concert.

I don’t begrudge Bruce making money. Do I think he needs that much more when he just sold his catalogue to Sony for half a billion dollars? No. I know the rich are different and I can’t put a value on what he’s added to my life. But I’m sad that he’s priced me out of one of the biggest things that brought me joy before I had my kids.

I also know I’m going to get two VERY different types of responses to this post. The non-Springsteen fanatics are sitting there calculating how much I spent over the years on 42 shows at the earlier price points and thinking I’m insane for that, let alone contemplating what they are now. And the diehard Springsteen fans are sitting there saying, “You’re making a choice. You can always make more money. Go to the show.”

There’s also always the third option of getting cheapie seats. But I’ve sat in the 400s at Capitol One (It will ALWAYS be the Verizon Center in my head and nothing will ever change that. I still call Jiffy Lube Nissan, and I refuse to call National Airport anything other than National Airport. Deal with it.). And I’ve had my elbows on the stage. I don’t want to pay $400 (with the babysitter factored in) to squint at the screens, while tiny, E Street Band shaped ants perform on stage.

I also know that this is the biggest first world problem ever. Poor me, I can’t justify spending the money to be in the pit for my forty-third show. But I suppose this is also me saying I’ve grown up. And instead of the Wendy who wraps her legs ‘round these velvet rims and straps her hands ‘cross these engines, I’m the Wendy who is ever so much more than twenty. I grew up a long time ago.

In the video of me on-stage, when I get back into the pit, you can see me texting someone. It was my now-husband. That concert happened between our first and second dates. And I told him I was dancing on stage that night before it happened. And he later said that he was like, “who IS this girl?” because I knew what I wanted and I made it happen and so few people go for it like that.

I want to go to the shows. But I want what’s best for my family more. And I didn’t have the responsibilities that I have now, then.

What’s actually going to happen when the tickets go on sale?

I don’t know the answer.

I might cave. And my husband will say we should go to the show if that happens, although I’ll spend months second guessing myself and debating selling the tickets.

I might stay strong and say no, I’m not spending that much.

Either way, I’m probably going to cry and hope this new book sells crazily well so that I can go without feeling guilty.

But I know I’m not the only fan today sitting around, thinking ‘bout Glory Days.

Author life, Mom Life

I got called a celebrity. In reality, I am held together by iced coffee and dry shampoo.

February 17, 2022February 17, 2022 Sara Confino

Recently, someone called me a celebrity. Like in a non-joking way, because of my book.

And while I was flattered, I felt the need to correct her.

Now, I’m not one of those people who can’t take a compliment. If you tell me my hair looks nice, I’ll thank you (even though 90 percent of the time, it’s dirty. #momlife). Tell me you like my shirt, I’ll thank you and tell you where I got it (likely answer? Amazon. Let me send you a link!).

But a celebrity?

Another author I know (okay, that part sounds famous) said that only one percent of authors are able to make a real living off of their book royalties. Which is the most discouraging number I’ve ever heard, but we beat on, boats against the current–wait, I’m stealing that from an ACTUAL famous author.

(And I did once spend four hours as the number one bestselling humor author in Australia. #famous)

Admittedly, authors steal a lot too. (Sorry friends who have recognized bits of themselves in my work! Love you!)

Hopefully I’ll make it to that elusive one percent someday, but so far, I haven’t seen a cent in royalties. Because if you get an advance, you don’t see another penny until your book “earns out,” meaning makes that amount of money back. And if your book sells at auction like mine did… well, you’ll be waiting a few months at best.

With that said, sales have been solid and I’m happy with them. And I’m EXTREMELY excited for my next book, She’s Up to No Good, which is coming out August 1.

But a celebrity?

My alarm goes off at 5:55 on school days. Notice I didn’t say I wake up at 5:55, because I’m often already awake from one child or the other. Jacob will run in at 5:30 under the guise of a bad dream (aka woke up and wants me to tuck him back in), and if Max hears him, we’re all up.

I shower at night now because a morning shower is NOT guaranteed with two little ones.

Did you hear that? It was the sound of my mother retching. Sorry mom.

We then race around to make breakfast while getting dressed, taking the dog out, and keeping two tiny humans alive while they run amok and dive bomb off of anything they can climb. I drink my coffee (which I make at home) over ice because iced coffee won’t burn a child when they inevitably run into or dive bomb off of me. (And I’m basic. Deal with it.)

Breakfast is a scarfed bowl of cereal at the counter while I get everyone’s lunches into the correct bags. I messed up and gave the kids the wrong lunches two weeks ago. I’m now supervised heavily in this role lest I mess up again. (One mistake all year. And I’ll never be trustworthy again.)

Then I wrestle the tiny humans into clothes. Jacob will only wear short sleeves and his outfit HAS to match his brother’s. If Max doesn’t have the same shirt, SOMETIMES Jacob will settle for one that’s the same color and material. SOMETIMES.

Assuming I succeed, I take Jacob to school and the husband takes Max. We have not left on time yet. We’re 110 days into the school year and we are 0/110. That’s a wordle score I definitely wouldn’t post.

After drop off, I drive like a demon (or an angry groundhog, as Jacob would say. We showed him that scene of the movie on Groundhog Day and now he tells me not to drive angry) to make it to school (where I do the walk of shame, teacher-mom style, daily. I arrive late, in sunglasses, with my coffee from home. My principal is amazing and knows I’m frequently late from drop off so I promised never to walk in with Starbucks and to do my best to get here. That promise I’ve kept!). And I have the speed camera tickets to prove it.

I spend the next seven and a half hours being, as one of my students put it the other day, the mask police. We used to spend our days telling kids to put their phones away. Now it’s “cover your nose. Pull your mask up. I shouldn’t see nostrils. Eat that in the hall. Keep your mask on. Why is only your chin covered? Turn to page–no, don’t pull your mask down to sneeze!” etc.

For the record, yes, I hate masking too. But my kids aren’t old enough to be vaccinated, so it’s the only thing I can do to keep them safe from me for now.

Then, when the day is over, I race back home, eat a quick snack, and, if I’m fast enough, do a VERY SHORT workout before the kids arrive home.

Then I’m on mom duty for the rest of the day. Breaks do not exist. If I use the bathroom, they will find me. They get 30 minutes to an hour of tv so that I can make their lunches for the next day and pull together dinner, which is futile because they’ll wind up eating dinosaur nuggets no matter what I make. And yes, they must be shaped like dinosaurs or they will not be consumed.

Then it’s an hour of bath time and getting them ready for bed.

Whew! I’m done.

No, wait, I’m not. Then it’s time to write.

Because I’m not exhausted by 8pm or anything.

I give myself an hour and a half to write/edit, then finally hop in the shower (without washing my hair. I told you it’s dirty!) and MAYBE watch 20 minutes of tv with the hubs while I drink a glass of well-earned wine before bed.

I may be living the beginning of the dream with my publishing career, but I feel as far from a celebrity as it’s possible to get. Instead, I’m a tired mom working multiple jobs and feeling like I can’t possibly juggle another ball, all while people keep tossing me more balls. And as Keegan, my high school journalism teacher, will tell you, I’m the only Rampage alum whom he failed to teach to juggle.

But to answer what I’m sure are your only two questions after reading all of this: YES, I’m working on book three, and I wash my hair on weekends.

Non Mom Life

Q & A with Sara Goodman Confino

November 30, 2021 Sara Confino

Sara is the author of For the Love of Friends, one of my favorite debut novels this year! She is a high school English and journalism teacher, a wife…
Q & A with Sara Goodman Confino

My ridiculous life

To undo the curse of 2020, I have to eat some really old kugel

October 13, 2020July 29, 2022 Sara Confino

I think I know why 2020 is the flaming garbage pile that it is.

It all began in January, when my mother told me that my grandmother said she was giving her antique sewing machine to my cousin, who has never sewn anything in his life.

I don’t sew well, but I possess the ability to inexpertly mend things. And moreover, I am likely the last human being on earth who can work that beast of a machine. I have spent cumulative weeks of my life threading it for my grandmother, who, at 93, has not been able to wrap a piece of miniscule thread through its inanely intricate nooks and crannies in many years. I no longer need to ask for help—I know each step of the inexplicably overcomplicated process. I could probably do it with my eyes closed. Forget those tests where you need to remember five words. If you can figure out where that piece of thread goes next, your brain is better than most.

Do I need an antique sewing machine that breaks more often than it works?

No, I do not.

Do I have room for it in my already tiny home office that is now being used as a digital classroom as well?

Nope.

Do I want that goddamned thing after how much of my life I have spent threading it for my grandmother, while listening to her tell me the stories that helped shape who I am as a writer?

Abso-freaking-lutely.

“Why would she give it to *name redacted so he doesn’t hate me for this post even though I’m positive he doesn’t read my blog*?”

“He asked for it.”

Being me, I immediately Googled “antique Singer sewing machine,” and pulled up one that was older, in better condition, and listed for $4,000 on eBay. “Wonder why he wants it,” I grumbled angrily. Then, against my better judgment, I called my grandmother and told her I was upset that she was going to give it to someone else after how many hours I had dedicated to helping her with it and after she had said it would go to me someday. (She did say that. Of course, you could admire literally anything of my grandmother’s from a piece of jewelry to the sandwich she was eating and her response would be, “When I die…”)

She got flustered and told me she never promised it to anyone and if I wanted it so bad, I could just come take it now.

At which point it hit me that I REALLY don’t have room for this thing. Or THAT strong of an actual attachment to it. Do I want a sewing machine or some nice jewelry that I can wear every day and think of her? Easy answer. But I’d be damned if my cousin was going to sell it on eBay, and I said as much. We were both pretty angry and ended that phone call without a resolution.

I didn’t sleep that night. And at 3am, I emailed my grandmother, apologizing. She’s old. God forbid something happened to her, I didn’t want that fight to be our final interaction. So I offered up possibly the only entirely abject apology I have ever given. No excuses. No justifications. Just I’m sorry. It’s your sewing machine to do whatever you want with, not mine. I have no claims on it. And I love you.

My conscience clearer, I went to sleep.

I woke up to an email from her, expecting what I usually get when we fight—some garbled message that makes zero sense but provides some vague reassurance that I am forgiven.

What I did NOT expect was an email saying that my apology was not accepted and that I would miss her when she was dead.

Cool.

But my grandma is like the tides. Wait a few hours and she’ll turn. And I’ve never known her to hold a grudge, even when she probably should.

I spoke to my mother later that day and was informed my grandmother was baking kugels (a Jewish noodle dish. While every Jew will tell you that their grandmother makes the best kugel in the world, they’re all wrong because MY grandma makes the best kugel and I will fight you if you try to claim otherwise. Of course, at this rate, she’ll probably give the recipe to one of my cousins who will publish it on the internet, so you’ll all get to experience it for yourselves.).

“What for?”

“The bris.”

At which point, I lost it. I was four months pregnant with my second boy at the time. Not even quite at the halfway point. And while we’re not a superstitious family, it’s considered bad luck in Judaism to prepare in advance of the baby.

“The bris is more than four months away. No one wants to eat four-month-old kugel that’s been sitting in the freezer.”

My mother sighed. “It’ll be fine.”

I took a deep breath. Stress is bad for babies after all. Fine. Whatever. If she wanted to make the kugels now, she could make the kugels now. My aunt Dolly was famous for making holiday meals years in advance. Four months in a freezer couldn’t REALLY hurt a kugel. Those things would probably survive a nuclear holocaust.

And, despite not being forgiven, I brought Jacob to visit my grandmother that afternoon. She was still making kugels.

“Why are you making them so early?” I asked, unable to help myself. “You know it’s considered bad luck to make things before the baby is born. You’re jinxing us here.”

She turned to me, a spatula in her hand. “Well, I could be dead by then, so at least something of mine will be at the bris.”

I blinked heavily several times and decided not to press the point. Then I spent the next four hours dealing with Xfinity for her because her cable box in the kitchen wasn’t working. When it was finally fixed (which involved two separate trips to the Xfinity store), I was apparently forgiven.

Then a few days later, her freezer died and the Kugels of Passive Aggression had to be transported to my mother’s house for safekeeping until she had a working one.

You can see where this is going: the pandemic hit, there was no bris, and the Kugels of Passive Aggression sat in my grandmother’s new freezer until just two weeks ago, when my grandmother decided we would eat them at our socially distant Yom Kippur break fast on my parents’ porch.

Who am I kidding? I didn’t fast. I did a social media fast instead. My old rabbi said to make your fast meaningful and honestly that was more meaningful than food this year.

“She’s bringing the Kugels of Passive Aggression!” I hissed to my best friend, who had laughed hysterically at this saga as it unfolded.

“And you’d better eat every bite of that kugel,” she told me. “It’s the only way to end this nightmare!”

So my friends, if Biden wins, the pandemic disappears, and the world just generally stops sucking so much, please know that I ate two pieces of that nine-month-old kugel for all of us.

And it was STILL better than your grandma’s kugel, as you’ll learn for yourself when my other cousin (who has a cooking blog) posts the recipe for the Kugels of Passive Aggression for you all to make for yourselves.

Mom Life

I’m back! With a baby! And a book deal!

October 7, 2020October 7, 2020 Sara Confino

Hey all!

So I know I haven’t posted in… way too long. But I’m here to fix that.

And in case you don’t already follow me on social media, I have a LOT of news.

Last summer, I wrote a new book. Which sounds like such a humble brag. Like what did you do over your summer vacation, Mrs. Confino? Oh, I wrote a novel. NBD.

Of course, that was back in the before times—you know, when the world was still functioning. I also got pregnant in the before times too.

Then the pandemic hit and two wonderful things happened along with all of the horrors that this absolute nightmare of a year dumps upon us daily.

Number one, my goddess of an agent (who was also pregnant and due nine days before me) sold my book.

Then, just days later, she and I both went into labor and had our babies on the same day, a couple hours apart, though on opposite coasts.

So I’m now the proud mother of baby Max and the even prouder owner of a two-book deal with Lake Union Publishing.

That’s right. They loved my book so much that they outbid two other houses and offered to take the next UNWRITTEN book as well.

Which is insane.

Especially because I now have to write a second book while teaching online and wearing a baby in a pandemic with a deadline of next summer.

No pressure or anything.

So what does it feel like when your lifelong dream comes true?

Honestly, I have no freaking idea yet. It still doesn’t feel real even with book advance money sitting in a bank account. Granted, that money doesn’t feel real either because I’m far too superstitious to spend any of it before I see how the book does. So instead I’m basically just crouching over it like an egg to see if it hatches. Which also speaks to my overwhelming sense of imposter syndrome because there’s a tiny, little, itty bitty fine print clause in my contract stating that if I can’t produce a high enough quality book for the second one, I have to give half of the money back. After taxes.

Again, no pressure.

But having that second baby in a pandemic, while full time momming AND full time teaching has also been so all consuming that I haven’t had time to feel feelings about the book yet.

Because teaching while caring for a baby is hard on a level that I never dreamed of before. Like being a working mom on its own is insanely hard. There’s the guilt of leaving your baby. And the even stronger guilt of KIND OF, SORT OF, JUST A LITTLE BIT not minding that you get a break from being a 24/7 mom and get to be something else for eight hours a day.

And teachers get to experience both worlds—I’ve had a few full-time moms tell me that I don’t understand how hard it is for them, and to an extent they’re right, especially because my husband is also a teacher and is home while I am over the summer. But I AM a full-time mom two months of the year in a normal year. And I know from my summers that that is also insanely hard.

This year, however, I don’t even know what I am. Except tired. Oh god, I’m so tired.

We made the gut wrenching decision to send Jacob back to preschool. Which he’s hating. But he needs the socialization after nearly five months of hard quarantine because of the new baby and his doctor was unequivocal about that. I feel like the world’s worst mom daily though because he’s having separation anxiety both because of the pandemic and because he knows Max is staying with me all day and he doesn’t understand why he can’t too.

Additionally, I’m not back out in the world. I JUST started grocery shopping instead of using Instacart, but I did wait until after Max was three months old just in case. I’m terrified of them sending us back to school. But I’m sending Jacob in, at three, in a mask, and hoping for the best.

World’s. Worst. Mom.

I keep joking that I’m providing free birth control to the kids in my online classes because they’re seeing how much trouble I’m having juggling everything. Max is a really good baby and most days he goes to sleep in his Ergobaby and I can just teach at my standing desk with him. And my mom comes to help a couple hours most days. But some days he screams for a significant portion of my class. A kid the other day asked if I could mute my baby.

Literally what teaching looks like. On a good day. Side note: if you’re on Zoom all day, get a ring light. You can thank me when it comes. I do NOT look this good in real life!

He was kidding, but I was close to crying. Because there are some days when Max’s naps coincide perfectly with my classes and I feel like I’ve got this mostly under control. And there are other days when I feel like I’m managing none of it at all.

But there are extreme highs as well. I’m such a psycho about Max’s head after Jacob needing a helmet that he is literally only on his back to sleep. Our pediatrician said he has the roundest head she’s seen on a four month old since Back to Sleep started. That was quite the win!

And Jacob, despite the hiccups with school, is so sweet with him. He comes in every morning, peers in Max’s crib and says, “Hey buddy. Nice outfit!”

And the book IS becoming more and more real every day. I somehow made my way through my edits this summer with a newborn and we’re now at the copy editing stage. Granted, sometimes my editor emails me with a request for something and I have to Google what it is (some things don’t change) because this is all new to me, but what a great reason to use Google instead of for anxiety-relief!

I’ll wrap this up because I’ve rambled enough, but I’m still here and I promise to be better about keeping at the blog—even when I’m trying to find time to write book #2 of this contract!

Mom Life

With apologies to Bruce Springsteen, Santa Claus isn’t coming to my house…

December 19, 2019 Sara Confino

At the risk of sounding Grinchy, I’m pretty far from feeling the Christmas spirit this year.

Not that that’s anything specifically new — I’m Jewish. And contrary to what the non-Jews will tell you, Hanukkah isn’t a major holiday. It’s a minor festival. And not like a cool music festival type of festival. You sing a couple prayers, light a couple candles, and if you’re feeling bougie and want to impress the people you invited over, you make some latkes and maybe serve some donuts. If you didn’t invite anyone over, the latkes probably aren’t happening. They’re a lot of work.

Then the kids get presents.

Presents are where the similarities to Christmas start and end. And to be honest, the presents are an assimilationist trick to counteract the whole Christmas thing. Traditionally, kids got a little money (gelt) at Hanukkah, usually with the idea that they were supposed to learn to give to charity (tzedakah) with it. Which is a pretty far cry from what most kids (including my own) get for Hanukkah. (Although to be fair, I told my family that all I want is gelt — adulting when you have a kid is EXPENSIVE.)

But I’m not here to explain Hanukkah today. I’m here to talk about the draft (only my parents laughed at that, sorry not sorry. They’re providing my gelt this year!).

I’ve actually run into a new problem — which probably isn’t remotely new to non-Christian parents, but it’s my first time experiencing it.

That problem is Santa Claus.

I get that most people love Christmas. What I don’t get is the inability to recognize that others may not celebrate the same holiday. And these random strangers are extending that insensitivity to my child.

Jacob saw a toy ice cream truck at the grocery store last weekend that we had no intention of buying him. It was too small for him, cheaply made, and neon pink (I have no problem with him having pink toys, but the neon made my head hurt). And because he’s two-and-a-half, he had a slight meltdown when we said no. On the scale of meltdowns, it was minor, but there were some tears and throwing his head back and wailing.

“Oh Jacob, don’t cry, I’m sure Santa is going to bring you that toy,” our previously favorite cashier crooned to him. “You don’t want mommy and daddy to buy it for you because what will Santa bring then?”

Jacob stopped crying and looked at her, interested. Thus encouraged, she continued. “See, it’s not worth crying, because Santa is going to bring you that toy!”

Hubby and I stood there frozen in shock.

Even if we celebrated Christmas, it was inappropriate. I read that fantastic article about why we shouldn’t tell our kids that Santa brought big gifts because it makes poorer kids feel like they must not have been as good as their richer classmates. And we were never going to buy that toy.

But doubly so for a child whose only exposure to Santa so far has been seeing inflatable lawn ornaments and asking who that man was.

Now before you accuse me of reigniting the “War on Christmas,” (which is total BS. Sorry not sorry again.) I have no problem with Christmas. Celebrate absolutely any holiday that warms your heart. And I let my kid go trick-or-treating despite Halloween technically having Christian or pagan roots (depending on who you ask). I’m not anti-fun. But for all of these people who want to “keep the Christ in Christmas,” I have to say, Santa isn’t it.

If I’m being honest, I already have mixed feelings about the tooth fairy too. I’m not sure I see the value in deliberately lying to your kids, only for them to later discover that you lied to them, rather than telling them the truth and building trust from the very beginning. And while my mom to this day denies it, when I *caught* her being the tooth fairy, she tried to tell me I was dreaming (and did all kinds of swirly hand things to “prove” it). And the fact that she maintained the lie the next morning (and today for that matter. I guarantee when she reads this, she’ll tell me that never happened) just made me wonder what else she and my dad weren’t being entirely honest about. Was the Mormon Temple really NOT Disney World and “you just can’t get there from here”? Did my Sesame Street tapes REALLY not play in my dad’s car? What else were they lying to me about?

While I don’t personally agree with the decision, I also am fully aware that I have no right to tell others how to live their lives or raise their children. So I know that the Santa lie is going nowhere. But I don’t quite understand why strangers are foisting it on my kid.

The day after we went to the grocery store, we were playing with Jacob and he announced to us that, “Santa is bringing me my ice cream truck.” Hubby and I exchanged glances, having discussed what to say at length when this came up after we both stood there frozen like deer in the headlights at the store. Then we patiently explained that Santa wasn’t bringing him toys, mommy and daddy were because we celebrate Hanukkah, not Christmas. Then we ordered the Little Tikes version of that goddamned ice cream truck while he watched us do it so we could make the point about *us* being the ones to buy it.

And we’re never going to that cashier’s lane at the grocery store again.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy Festivus for the rest of us.

Mom Life

I’m crafty like a fox–not like my mom, who made all of our Halloween costumes from scratch

October 22, 2018October 22, 2018 Sara Confino

Halloween is giving me a newfound respect for my mom. And making me freaking hate Pinterest even more than ever.

Granted, ’80s and ’90s moms had it easier because there was no social media. So if your kid went out looking like a hot mess for Halloween, it only lasted one night–now the memories can haunt your child for the rest of their natural lives.

But my mom went all in for Halloween. Probably because she was an art teacher and therefore crafty–like a mom, not a fox–by nature. So our Halloween costumes were elaborate affairs that we spent months planning. And when we looked like hot messes, it was our own stupid faults for choosing an idiotic theme for my mother to execute.

Like when my brother chose to go as Elmer’s glue. Or a lawn bag. But my mother, despite working a full-time job and being the only cook in our family, created those costumes in loving detail, painting a sandwich board to match a bottle of glue and bending green pipe cleaners to come out of the top of the lawn bag.

The year that my brother was a bottle of glue, I chose to be a Hershey’s Kiss. So my mother crafted a suit out of chicken wire and a hula hoop, which she covered in aluminum foil, then made a pointed hat to match, with a Hershey’s logo affixed to the top, and dressed me in a brown turtleneck and leggings under it. When I was Raggedy Ann, she made me a wig of yarn. When I wore my grandmother’s 1960s pink, knockoff Chanel suit and pillbox hat, she talked me out of putting brains on it for my Jackie Kennedy costume. And when I was Dorothy, as all brunette female children are at some point or another, they didn’t sell child-sized ruby slippers on Amazon for $11.99 like they do today, so my mother painted a pair of Keds red, then dipped them in a mix of red glitter and sequins.

Flash forward to me as a mom? I spent $36 on a baby Cookie Monster costume off Spirit Halloween’s website. I didn’t even go to the store.

I suck.

I wanted Jacob to be baby Bruce Springsteen, in a white t shirt, jeans, red bandana, a red baseball cap in his back pocket, and his toy guitar. Hubby didn’t love the idea. He wanted him to be something cute and kid-like.

51f62da8-b005-4bc7-8ec8-6393b88c3e90 — Come on. The resemblance is uncanny!

I voted for baby Luke Skywalker. Yes, I’d be buying the costume, but the dogs already have Ewok costumes (which was probably a big waste of money. They already kind of look like Ewoks. But whatever. Dogs are people too.) Hubby vetoed that one too. Which was totally unfair because Jacob recently demonstrated how awesome he’d be with a light saber when we took him to Home Depot and he found a PVC pipe that he ran through the store screaming and brandishing as a sword.

At this point, I began pouting because this is probably the last year that we can pick a costume for him before he starts exerting his toddler Jedi-mind tricks (aka throwing a tantrum) if he doesn’t get his own way. And last year, his first Halloween, we matched his costume to the aviator theme of his helmet (which I had wanted to have wrapped to look like R2D2 and still think would have been a better costume. Yes, I’m a huge Star Wars nerd. But as an ’80s kid, our only brunette heroines were Dorothy and Leia. So basically I’m obsessed with shoes and Star Wars. Blame society.), so I didn’t get to have fun with that one either.

And because he’s related to me, next year, he’ll want to be something weird like a Starbucks cup or a stapler.

We finally agreed on Cookie Monster because Jacob loves the number of the day song when we watch Sesame Street. He prefers the Count’s version (and gets up and stomps his feet along with it), but the Cookie Monster costume was cuter, warmer, and more easily obtained on the internet.

Then I told my neighbor the plan and she said, “That’s easy. Just buy him a blue sweatsuit and glue some eyes on the hood. Done!”

I looked shamefacedly toward the ground. “I kinda ordered it online,” I mumbled.

“Oh,” she said, trying to keep the ’90s mom judgment off her face. “That’ll be really cute.”

I trudged home, the guilt of my generation’s lack of creativity coming off of me in waves. In my defense, store-bought costumes have come a long way since the horrifying plastic He-Man masks of the ’80s. But the fact that my mom made all of those costumes from scratch every year impresses me now. Because ours never looked like a pair of sweats with eyes. Ours were handcrafted masterpieces that would have held up even on social media.

Of course, the irony isn’t lost on me that, at the time, all we wanted were those crappy store-bought ’80s nightmares. But my mom insisted on making ours from scratch every year, probably to save money. Yet, looking back, those handmade costumes were the best and I wish I had the creative energy to do even half of what my mom did.

The good news is that we Jews get a second chance at Halloween. So I have time to step my mom game up before Purim rolls around.

Or he’ll be Cookie Monster again. Or I’ll wear Hubby down about baby Bruce Springsteen.

We’ll see how guilty I feel by then.

Mom Life

Walking, ER visits, and liquid dinners: the mommy milestones

October 10, 2018 Sara Confino

Hey guys! We’re going to completely ignore the time jump here and pretend I’ve been blogging regularly all along, okay?

Awesome.

So we had some great milestones and one crappy milestone in the last couple of weeks.

I’ll start with the good.

Jacob is 18 months old! How did THAT happen? He’s walking, he’s running, he’s climbing, he’s dancing, he’s destroying entire cities, the works. And even more exciting, he graduated from physical therapy!

I could lie and say that working on my book (I have a new agent and I adore her–she’s had fantastic insight and I DID work my butt off over the summer on it to transform the manuscript into something I’m truly proud of) was why I stopped blogging, but the real reason was Jacob wasn’t walking yet. And that felt like a huge red flag that I just didn’t want to put out there on top of all of our other gross motor issues.

He started walking at 15.5 months, which technically isn’t even late; anything before 18 months is considered normal. But social media is absolutely soul crushing when you feel like your child isn’t achieving a milestone and everyone you’ve ever known is posting videos of their babies, who are months younger than your babies, walking, running marathons, and speedskating in the Olympics at 11 months old.

I did a lot of soul searching while I worried if Jacob would ever walk. On a rational level, I knew he would because you don’t see people crawling down the aisle at the supermarket. But I realized what an insensitive jerk I had frequently been to other new parents. I honestly never meant to be (except to Karen* from fifth grade. I still hate you Karen.), but because I walked at nine months, I assumed that any baby who didn’t walk that early was behind.

*Karen is not her real name. But I can’t print her real name because then she’ll know how much I hate her.

So as we crawled further and further past Jacob’s first birthday without any independent footsteps, I mentally kicked myself for asking my hair stylist (I adore her–she’s no Karen!) if her nine-month-old twins were walking yet. It doesn’t seem like it would be a loaded question–until you have a kid, at which point it feels judgmental and like it’s pointing out a flaw. Sorry, Christy, I’m a monster.

Our physical therapist also pointed out that Jacob’s feet were overpronating and therefore still not normal, so it felt like there would never be an end to our days of physical therapy. That was really hard, and I started making Hubby take Jacob to his appointments largely because I couldn’t handle the emotional toll of being told the next thing that was going to be an issue.

But then, one day, as we tried to coax him to take a couple of steps between us, Jacob did it! Those couple of steps spread to across the room by the end of the day. And soon enough, he was walking everywhere. And now? God help you if you try to pick him up when he wants to be walking (as he made clear when I took him to TJ Maxx and let him get down from the cart to walk around. When it was time to leave, I definitely looked like I was abducting him as I carried him out of the store, screaming bloody murder and thrashing like a dying fish.

So hearing that he was finally caught up on all of his motor skills felt like the untying of a heavy stone around my neck. Or like a really drastic haircut (seriously, I have a LOT of hair. It’s heavy. There’s a reason I love my stylist!) when your head feels lighter and all of that neck tension just melts away.

Of course, we’ve also had less happy milestones like our first SUPER FUN emergency room visit because Jacob banged his forehead on the ONLY table in our entire house that wasn’t covered in protective foam. We literally had ten inches of unprotected furniture in the house and that one span of table edge acted as a siren, luring Jacob’s perfect, unblemished forehead to crash upon it.

I was peeing at the time (ah the life of a mother, when the bathroom feels like a refreshing break) and heard Hubby screaming for me at the top of his lungs.

When I scream like that, it means there’s a spider. But Hubby is the spider-killer, so I didn’t know what to expect. I did NOT expect to see the two of them looking like the pig-blood scene in Carrie, but thankfully Jacob did not begin using his blood-soaked powers to destroy the entire town.

I surprised myself by staying calm, throwing snacks in my bag (it was close to dinner time), grabbing shoes for Jacob and myself, and hustling us all off to the closest emergency room, only 83 percent sure that the ER was going to call Child Protective Services on us for allowing this to happen to our child.

After some frantic texting to my brother (the ER doctor), my best friend (the ER mom veteran), and my parents (the jackasses who made jokes when my poor baby was bleeding from the head–not you mom, you were fine. It was dad!), we opted to let the ER doctor glue his wound closed instead of calling for a plastic surgeon. It was pretty superficial with very clean lines and, worst case scenario, he could be Harry Potter for Halloween.

The ER staff couldn’t have been sweeter. Not only did they NOT report us to CPS, they reassured us that this happens to their own children as well, and the doctor and nurse sang to Jacob as they glued his forehead (he was screaming because they had to swaddle him in a papoose to keep him still. Neither Jacob nor I enjoyed that part of the experience as I huddled in the corner weeping as soon as I no longer had to be the responsible adult), and we were back home an hour and a half after the incident.

Where I put the baby to bed, then poured myself a GIGANTIC glass of wine and called it dinner. But when I texted a friend a picture of my dinner, he replied with a picture of his own liquid dinner. He has four kids. So apparently it doesn’t get easier and there’s a reason that the Olney Safeway has such a large wine selection.

Cheers to all of you other parents! We kept our kids alive to ram their heads into a table another day!

Mom Life

The baby is supposed to eat what I eat–what food group is coffee in?

April 17, 2018 Sara Confino

At Jacob’s one year doctor’s appointment, his pediatrician told us we can throw out all of the pureed baby food and give Jacob table food exclusively.

“He should eat what you eat,” she said, smiling.

Crap.

I can’t admit to the pediatrician that I survive on the super healthy mom diet of coffee, a protein bar (breakfast), more coffee, a handful of almonds (snack), coffee, a salad or a yogurt (lunch), some random junk food scavenged from the English office or stolen from another teacher’s candy drawer (I’m the worst. I’ll literally walk in while he’s teaching, take candy out of his drawer, laugh at the kids when they ask for some, and walk back out) when I’m starving sixth period that I then spend the rest of the day feeling guilty about, Diet Coke (not every day–but when we’re going through a sleep regression, I’m allowed to do whatever I need to in order to survive), a handful of crackers (snack), and then chicken and veggies (dinner).

In fact, looking over my daily diet, I’m shocked that I don’t have scurvy. When did I last eat a piece of fruit? I didn’t even eat a purple donut, so Homer Simpson’s logic that purple is a fruit doesn’t apply.

That is NOT a balanced diet for a baby toddler (he’s not quite a toddler yet. I can’t call him that. But he IS a baby toddler).

So as I see it, I’ve got two options. I can either adopt a balanced diet for myself and then feed him bite-sized pieces of what I eat, or I can keep doing what I’m doing and feed HIM a balanced diet.

In a perfect world, I’d go with option A, but I’m working full time, tired, and trying to keep weight off without having time to exercise. Judge me if you will, but until the scurvy sets in, I’m sticking with what works.

(Actually, I put low sugar craisins in my salad for today. That counts as fruit right? If purple is a fruit, red is definitely a fruit!)

So I need to figure out what to feed Jacob. His favorite foods so far: grilled cheese, french toast, veggie straws (which, despite clever marketing, are not healthy. They’re slightly less unhealthy potato chips. They’re basically Baked Lays, but yummy), and freeze-dried yogurt drops.

He’ll eat almost anything if it’s pureed–the only things he won’t touch with a ten-foot pole are beets (tried a baby food mix that had beets in it and he gagged on it, spit it right out, then looked at me distrustfully and wouldn’t let me feel him again until I made him grilled cheese two meals in a row. I can’t blame him. Beets are pretty gross) and mangoes.

Whole foods, however, are providing slightly more challenging. Both because he’s not always a fan of textures (he’ll put something in his mouth, decide he’s not into it, and pull it right back out) and because he’s discovered he has a favorite game. I’m calling it “Hungry, Hungry Doggies.”

Both schnauzers began camping out under his high chair shortly after we began using it. At first, they laid next to it, hoping for thrown Cheerios. Then Jacob started dropping toys and sippy cups on their heads, so now they take shelter under him. But when he throws food, two dog heads pop out and scrabble for it, like it’s a marble in the board game. And he laughs hysterically.

Meaning that his food has become their food. (Of course, he’s also gone after their food now. I’ve pulled three pieces of dog food out of his mouth before he could swallow them so far. Mangoes he won’t touch, but kibble? Delicious.)

In other words, it has now become a challenge to get healthy food in him because the only four dishes that he won’t throw to the dogs are grilled cheese, french toast, veggie straws, and freeze-dried yogurt drops.

So I went to the experts: my mom friends. “Help meeeeee,” I begged. “How do I get Jacob to eat healthy foods?”

And I got a plethora of things to try, most of which Jacob summarily rejected because all babies are different and Jacob is smart enough to know that if he throws enough green beans to the dogs, I’ll eventually cave and make him something yummy.

One of my mom friends also tagged me in some Instagram posts from moms who do “kid food-spiration.” (Yes, that’s a thing. The internet has officially gone too far and I think society has been destroyed.) And I was like, oh cool, I’ll follow these pages and get great ideas about what to feed Jacob.

But the more I’m seeing, the more convinced I am that these moms all live in Brooklyn and appear on HGTV shows with multi-million dollar budgets without any discernible source of income. Because no, I’m not making vegan quinoa, tofu and avocado “deconstructed tacos” with gluten-free, homemade bean chips and chickpea and sunflower butter cookies for dessert, all packed in an eco-friendly, BPA free, recycled lunch tin with compartments specifically for their non-GMO, locally sourced, organic pomegranate seeds.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?

Dude, I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on Pepperidge Farm cinnamon raisin swirl bread every day from K-12 for lunch and turned out fine. Granted, I didn’t grow up to have the healthiest eating habits, and I’m hearing that peanut butter is banned from most elementary schools now because of food allergies so that probably won’t be an option for Jacob, but still. I never brought anything green for lunch and I’m pretty sure no one ever called social services on my mom.

With that said, Jacob seems to be a fan of broccoli. I found “broccoli tots” at the grocery store, which he loves (like tater tots, but broccoli instead of potato). We’re still using some of the food packets to supplement his fruit and veggie intake on days when the dogs get a feast. And considering his doctor mentioned that we can give him chicken nuggets (he hasn’t had that particularly delicacy yet), I think we’re doing okay, despite the lack of organic, locally sourced kale and quinoa.

Of course, now that I’ve admitted to my terrible eating habits, I’m making myself feel guilty about the example that I’m setting and am thinking I should start bringing an apple to school to avoid the sixth period candy run. It’s probably a good idea to model healthy eating habits.

And to avoid scurvy. I don’t even know exactly what that is, but if it’s a disease that pirates got, I’m thinking it’s not pretty.

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*Karen is not her real name. But I can’t print her real name because then she’ll know how much I hate her.

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