As much as my five-year-old son loves play-dates, I am ready to throw in the towel. No, it is not the fact that my house looks like a tornado tore through it after Dylan leaves- with chunks of play-do ground into the carpet and sharp Lego pieces scattered everywhere, just waiting for me to step on. It doesn’t even bother me that I have to wipe Hunter’s poopy tushy after he uses the potty. I never utter a complaint when Jake insists that every miniscule speck of apple peel be removed before he eats his snack.

I didn’t even mind when Ella chastised me for putting peanut butter on her crackers. “My mommy said no peanut butter until I’m 10! Don’t you know that peanut allergies are severe and life-threatening?” she admonished when I attempted to smear the ominous spread on her Organic Saltines.

In fact, there is no idiosyncratic preschool behavior that compares to the actions of these kids’ highly neurotic and delusional mothers. While these West Los Angeles women should feel grateful to not have any real problems, they seem desperate to create all sorts of issues for their little Maddie’s and Aiden’s. And while they’re happy to dump their kid at my house for two or three hours of free babysitting so they can get their forehead botoxed or bikini line brazillianed, they’re quick to express all their “concerns” before doing so.

Most recently my son Shane had a play-date scheduled with his good friend Henry from summer-camp. I should have known that any mom who would name her kid Henry (the most clichéd, unoriginal, and obnoxious name of the decade) would be trouble. Henry has been to my home several times for play-dates and while his mom has not yet reciprocated (which is common) I’m happy to have him over because the boys truly love each other and always have a great time. Even their camp-counselor told me what a special connection Shane and Henry have, and how wonderful it is to watch them play in cooperation with each other.

So on the Monday morning before their play-date, I was surprised when I got a call from Henry’s mom. “I just wanted to touch base with you about this afternoon…” she began. What could it be, I wondered? Was the play-date conflicting with Henry’s private Tae Kwon Do lesson, or had he suddenly developed a deadly allergy to glutenous Goldfish Crackers?

She continued, “Henry told me that Shane was not his friend anymore. His feelings are hurt because whenever he plays at your house, Shane gets to choose what they do.”

I felt a slight sting of shame (as most moms do) when someone criticizes their kid. I didn’t want to reactively jump to his defense, so I took a deep breath and pulled out my best psycho-babble, “I have never observed this when they play. They always seem happy together. Perhaps Shane is being controlling because they’re always on his turf- maybe if the boys played at your house Henry will feel empowered again in their relationship.” Barf-bag not included with this sentiment.

She paused…”Well…I really have to go to Malibu this afternoon for an appointment. I’m sure they will be OK at your house. Just have a talk with them beforehand about taking turns and check in on them while they are playing and make sure everyone is happy….ok?”

Are you freaking kidding me? This woman cares enough about this “situation” to confront me about my son’s behavior, but is still willing to leave her kid at my house for three hours? Furthermore, she is now dictating how I speak to the boys and supervise them while they play???

“Listen,” I said, “Henry never seems upset when he’s here- they’re always laughing and having a great time. But if he doesn’t want to come over or is uncomfortable, then let’s cancel.”

She quickly replied, “Let’s not make this a bigger issue than it is- I’m sure they’ll be fine as long as you keep an eye on them.”

What I wanted to say was, “You crazy, neurotic bitch! No wonder boys are so emasculated and have no sense of self anymore- because they have moms like YOU turning them into total wankers. How about teaching precious Henry to SPEAK UP to his friends, rather then creating false problems and coddling him emotionally? And while you are at, how about giving him a normal name, rather than some uber-yuppified cliché name that every other over-indulged, spoiled-brat, West-Side kid has?”

I restrained myself. Barely.

For starters, I find the term “mommy-blogger” off-putting. It’s kind of like the expression “mommy-makeover” or “MILF (which stands for “mommy I’d like to fuck”, in case you were wondering!)  ”Mommy-blogger” feels patronizing, degrading- like a silly, little hobby that one does between changing poopy diapers.

Then there is the actual genre, which has many disturbing qualities, most markedly the blatant exploitation of the mommy’s children and family. I just read a post where the blogger referred to her twins as “the good one and the evil one” and in another post she discussed her feelings of shame over her son’s “wiener”, because he is “not as well endowed as the other toddlers in his swim class.” Disgusting.

On another site, a mommy used her blog to berate various members of her family. Regardless of the circumstances, publishing your rage towards your aunt and mother-in-law on the internet (and mentioning them by first and last name!), is a nasty and passive-aggressive act.

Yes, I write essays about my children and my life. But I have a few rules that I stringently adhere to, which I believe sets me apart from the genre. First and foremost, I mostly make fun of myself.  When I’m recounting an incident with another person, I always fictionalize any identifying information. When I publish anything, I read my essay through the eyes of my children. I ask myself  if anything I wrote could cause them feelings of embarrassment, because once it’s out there, it’s out there.

I hope to inspire, amuse, and provide food for thought on my blogs. And I save my incoherent ramblings, bitch-sessions, and creepy fears and anxieties for my actual journal, which is hidden away in some dusty, old closet, where it belongs.

I dreamt about my mom last night. It’s been awhile since she’s visited me in my dreams. Her appearances come in waves- I’ll see her every night for a week or two, then she’ll disappear for a month or more. She always seems to show up when I need her the most.

In my dream we were in the house that I grew up in, the house where I watched my mom die of cancer two weeks before I gave birth to Kiana, my daughter.

The memories of being there with her during that time are still in my body. I feel a deep pang, from my heart to the pit of my stomach. In my last lucid conversation with my mom, she told me that she knew that she was never going to meet her grand-daughter, the baby in my belly who was almost ready to be born.

Over the past few days I have felt my familiar and uncomfortable angst begin to well up. So many projects- so little time. I’ve questioned if I’m just spinning my wheels. My list is piling up, but at times I’m not even sure what I’m trying to accomplish.

I woke up in the middle of the night with that clenching 3am dread- every latent anxiety surfaces and is magnified without the distractions of my daytime routine. My mind raced from topic to topic- I thought about the upcoming play I will be performing in and the book that I’m working on, and quickly convinced myself that I would fail miserably at both endeavors.

I ruminated about my husband being out of town, and wondered how I would possibly get through the next few weeks without him. I contemplated my grocery list and realized that I had nothing to pack in Shane’s lunchbox. I thought about the audition I had yesterday and counted all the ways I fucked it up. Then I chastised myself for being a shitty friend because of all the phone calls I hadn’t yet returned. 

Everything got clumped together into a mosh-pit until I convinced myself that my entire life was out of control. I wondered why I couldn’t be one of those people who actually sleeps soundly at night. A person who has the capacity to feel some peace. By now I should know better then trying to solve “The Problem Of My Life” at three in the morning!

“The goal is not inner peace!” I heard the words of my favorite Rabbi, Mark Borovitz. “The goal is to struggle with dignity.”

The problem is, my struggles haven’t felt very dignified lately. I’ve been snappy with my children and unable to live in the moment. I’ve been feeling a bit sorry for myself with my husband out of town. I can’t find a good song on my iPod or a decent outfit in my closet. I’ve been procrastinating some challenging writing assignments and waiting for inspiration (which never works), rather then being disciplined and working my way through the creative blocks.

Why so much angst, I wondered again. My life is blessed. My children are healthy, my husband is employed, I can walk to the ocean from my house. I should have the capacity to enjoy my life and stop trying to manage and control everything.

There I go again- now it’s 3:17 am and all I’ve managed to do is beat myself up for how I think “should” be feeling… and, oh yeah, note to self- I’m out of bananas and string cheese!

I thought about my children again. I wondered if I was doing enough or doing too much. I feel incredibly responsibile for their physical and emotional well-being, as I should! But being solely responsible for them when my husband is out of town (as he often is) freaks me out, because in those moments it seems like the power to fuck them up completely rests in my hands.

I remembered the breathing exercise my yoga teacher taught me.”Breath in so, breath out hum.” I’m generally not a fan of chanting mantras, but I was so desperate to shut my brain off that I was willing to try anything. I tossed and turned and breathed.

So. Hum.

After what felt like hours, I fell back asleep. My mom quickly appeared in my dream. She looked just like she did before she went into hospice care, with her cute, highlighted haircut and soft make-up. She was wearing a flowing, linen dress. In other dreams, she is the mom of my childhood with long, bouncy, dark, hair, lots of eyeliner, and blue jeans.

While the details of my mom-dreams are different, the theme is always the same. We’re spending time together and I suddenly realize that she hasn’t really been dead for the past two-and-a-half years, rather she has been on vacation, or even weirder, she’s been staying in her friend’s basement. I’m so relieved that it was all a misunderstanding, and I feel such joy and gratitude to have her back in my life.

I love our relationship in these dreams- free of any inherent mother/daughter conflict. Perfectly simple and easy. I can talk to her about anything and she is wise and non-judgmental.

My mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table in the home I grew up in. I kept marveling at how she was finally back in my life, and how horribly mistaken I had been over the past few years. I told her, “I knew you weren’t really dead!”

Then, we were walking up a hill in my hometown and she was holding my hand. She smelled like her favorite perfume, White Musk from the Body Shop. I told her how much I loved her and missed her. She was smiling and very calm. I had a moment of feeling completely connected to her before she began to fade. She told me she loved me so much but she had to go. She said she was just visiting me again- just making sure I was OK.

When I awoke I wasn’t sure if she was dead, alive or somewhere in-between. The early morning sun filtered through the ficus trees outside my bedroom window and I heard Shane’s little feet padding into my bedroom.

And for one moment, I felt something that maybe, just maybe, resembled peace.

We’ve all been there. You’re at a restaurant with your little munchkin and she innocently leans on the table- perhaps a bit too zealously. It tilts… and all the plates, glasses, and silverware start sliding down. Just as the image of your entire meal crashing to the floor flashes before your eyes, your semi-decent parenting reflexes kick-in and you catch it, and breathe a big sigh of relief that Ella’s mac n’ cheese didn’t go flying across the restaurant!

But have you ever thought about what you would do if the table actually flipped? I wish I had given this issue some serious thought, so I would not have been struck completely dumb when it happened to me!

Why is it that none of the books or child experts ever explain how to deal with our most perplexing parenting moments? Someone should write a book called, “What To Do When Your Kid Flips A Table In A Restaurant.” Other chapter titles would include, “What To Do When Your Kid Barfs On You In The Passport Line At The Airport”, and, my favorite, “What To Do When Your Kid Pisses On His Brand-New Ugg Boots.” Now, that is a book I would definitely buy! So much more useful then all the repetitive, useless drivel out there!

Last Saturday, my friend Michael and I took our five-year-old sons to lunch at California Pizza Kitchen on the 3rd Street Promenade, a restaurant we frequent regularly. CPK is my son Shane’s all-time favorite restaurant and he always gets the same thing:

“Bread with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, a mini cheese pizza, and a raspberry Italian soda!” he proudly ordered when our regular waiter came by. Shane loves to mix up the vinegar and oil and dip his bread into it, a trick he learned from Yours Truly, aka The Queen Of Dipping. Find me an edible surface, and I’ll surely find something to dip it in!

We ate our meal and the boys behaved wonderfully. By the time they finished their hot fudge sundaes with mini m&m’s, our table was piled with plates, glasses, silverware, and, of course, Shane’s beloved olive oil and balsamic vinegar. We paid the bill and I asked Michael to watch the boys while I ran to the restroom. Michael said, “Ok guys, let’s go to the dinosaur fountain outside!” Michael’s son, Cameron, excitedly bounced up and used the table for leverage.

Then it happened….both in slow-motion and so rapidly that nothing could be done to prevent it. The table flipped and everything went flying. Raspberry Italian soda sprayed across the table. Mini m&m’s and goopy hot fudge dribbled onto the ground. A chunk of gnawed-on pizza crust landed on top of some man’s salad sitting at the table next to us.

Then I saw it… that bottle of balsamic vinegar. Shattered in dangerous shards near the man’s feet. For some unbeknown reason, he picked up the largest shard, which still had balsamic vinegar sloshing out of it, and madly raised it in the air. Droplets splattered down his arms and onto his jeans.

It looked like a murder weapon….or the imaginary bloody knife that Macbeth sees floating in the air in Act II. But this wasn’t Shakespeare- it was the real deal. And not only was the man crazily wielding the Balsamic Vinegar Weapon, but he looked fucking pissed-off enough to use it!

My first intinct was to scream, “It wasn’t my child!!!” but I figured that probably wasn’t too cool. Clearly, the perpetrator of the crime couldn’t be held accountable, given that he was only five and sobbing hysterically over the shock of the accident. His father was also unable to apologize to Balsamic Vinegar Dude, because he was busy comforting said child.

So I sat there completely dumbfounded, trying to avert the visual daggers that were being shot in my direction. Instead, I focused on Balsamic Vinegar Dude’s jeans, an acid-washed pair of too-tight True Religions, which were now completely splattered with deep purple stains. I tried to abdicate my guilt by telling myself that any man who dons acid-washed True Religion jeans deserves whatever is coming to him.

“Let’s go” I said, and quickly grabbed my purse and stood up. 

“But don’t you need to go the bathroom?” Michael asked, a typically oblivious male question. Stepping over the carnage and using the bathroom in this restaurant would be like accidentally driving your car through someone’s house then asking the owner for a cup coffee.

 ”I think I can hold it!” I said as I grabbed Shane’s hand and bolted out the door.

Clearly, high-tailing it out of there was not the right thing to do. I should have acknowledged the incident and, at the very least, apologized to the man. But a mere apology didn’t seem like enough, given the gravity of the situation. I suppose I could have offered to buy him a new pair of True Religion jeans, but I could not aid and abet such a hideous fashion crime!

I guess I won’t be eating at that CPK anymore!!!

Perhaps I need to find a new hobby because I seem to spend most of my days wondering if I am a good-enough mom. When the gift of introspection meets an inherent tendency to beat myself up mercilessly over the smallest thing (real or imagined), my maternal angst blossoms. The fact that I am clinical social worker only exacerbates the problem because like most shrinks, I am incapable of applying any of my knowledge to myself.

I want my children to evolve into kind, compassionate adults and I hope to always have a close bond with them, but every child expert and parenting book purports a different philosophy on how to get there. The bottom line- I pray my kids won’t be total losers when they are adults and blame me for all their problems!

There’s just too much information out there, so in an effort to simplify things in my own mind, I reflected on my adult clients who had contentious relationships with their parents. How could I avoid going down the same road with my own children?

After treating many people with deeply ingrained self-defeating, destructive, and dysfunctional behaviors that are so challenging to interpret, I made up my own diagnosis for these conditions: Shitty Mom Syndrome. I am rallying to get it in the DSM IV.

I have concluded that the diagnosis of Shitty Mom is responsible for almost all problems, including (but not limited to): self-esteem issues, personality disorders, and dysfunctional emotions like depression, anxiety, rage, hostility, apathy and hopelessness. Yes, if your feeling like shit, you must have had a Shitty Mom.

How about substance abuse; abuse of others; abuse of ourselves, and eating disorders? If you shoot up, shoot people, pop pills, eat like a pig, or slice your skin, you can blame your Shitty Mommy.

Ever known a shopaholic or kleptomaniac? Bet she had a Shitty Mom (and really cute clothes, too!)

Do you have any physical maladies including fatigue, chronic colds and other infections? What about high blood pressure, heart disease, skin problems, or intestinal disorders? Yes, if you have ever had a case of “the shits”, you most likely had a Shitty Mom.

How’s your guilt now, Mama? Wanna add anything to the list?

Anyone who has been in long-term therapy knows what I am taking about- it always comes down to Shitty Mom. That seems to be the one kernel of truth buried beneath all the layers of bullshit. In fact, the very goal of therapy seems to be stripping away at those layers and facing the fact that your mama was “Yo Mama!”, i.e., she totally sucked. You had a Shitty Mom. And that is why you are such a mess.

So, I have now decided to simplify my own goals as a mom. Instead of rifling through the myriad of parenting books and philosophies-rather then consulting with fancy experts in an attempt to make sense of the complicated task of mothering- I have decided to take a very untherapeutic approach to the situation.

I will do everything in power to ensure that my children do not end up on a therapist’s couch and spend thousands of dollars to be told that I was a Shitty Mom. Whatever it takes!

Shitty Mom Assessment Quiz to follow….

Self-aware, insightful, creative, and drug-addicted, Sarah has spent the past 3 decades in the alternate pursuits of getting high and fighting to get clean and sober. Sarah is the mother of Annie, a two-year-old girl, a successful painter and modern artist, and a drug addict.

After spending the past several years actively battling her addiction, she is now finding herself trapped in the horrific cycle of relapse. Only this time, the stakes are much higher with her daughter in tow.

Sarah’s story of chaos began as an infant, when her older brother was the victim of a freak hunting accident that resulted in a gunshot wound to his head. While he miraculously survived, the incident left her parents incapable of devoting any attention to their new baby. Her father emotionally detached to avoid dealing with the trauma, and her mother was absorbed in the care and rehabilitation of her brother. Sarah reflected, “I was raised by an elderly couple that lived down the block- my mom dropped me off there every day. I hope they were good to me.”

Her father was a heavy pot smoker and pill-popper and her mother suffered from major depression. She remembered, “There was always pot and alcohol in my house- my dad didn’t even try to hide it.” Her needs were neglected as her parents were consumed by their own addictions and problems. Sarah recalled, “My dad didn’t care as long as I stayed out of trouble.”

Sarah had no structure, routine, or rules. Her dad began having a series of extramarital affairs and when Sarah was 6, her mom attempted suicide and had an extended stay in a psych ward. When her mom was released, she and Sarah’s father divorced and she abandoned her children. Sarah recounted, “After that I had to fend for myself.”

At 8, Sarah was raped by a 14-year-old neighborhood boy. Of that experience, all Sarah can say is, “Where were my parents?” At 12, her dad taught her how to smoke pot, and for the first time in her life she felt comfortable in her skin. Immediately, her addiction took off and she began smoking pot, drinking, and taking pills on a daily basis, all of which she found a ready supply of in her home. She remembers going to middle school so drunk she could hardly stay awake.

One afternoon, she and a few other kids were hanging out with a 35-year-old drug dealer that prowled around the school. He offered her drugs inside of his van, then violently beat her and raped. Again, the rape went undetected by her father or any of the other adults in her life, and of course, unreported.

After a few months, she was kicked out of the 6th grade for failing school and getting into fights. “My dad was furious,” Sarah recalled, “He didn’t care if I ran around or hid in my room getting high, but he hated the public exposure and being called into school.” Sarah ran away from home and her dad didn’t try to find her.

At 14, Sarah was sent to her first (of many) therapeutical correctional facilities. She also attended her first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. “I was already a full-blown alcoholic and drug addict and I could relate to everything they were saying,” she stated. But she was far from ready to get clean and sober.

At 15, she was arrested for possession of meth-amphetamines. She was sentenced to treatment, and began her cycle of recovery and relapse. She could never pull together more then a few weeks clean, and her addiction progressed rapidly. She began shooting heroin and as with most heroin addicts, she shared needles at times.

By the time she was 25, she had been in treatment over 30 times. That was the year she was also diagnosed with hepatitis C, a viral disease that leads to swelling of the liver, and commonly affects intravenous drug users. It is safe to say that drug addiction or alcohol abuse can only continue to damage the liver and compromise the immune system as the virus continues. Yet for many hard-core addicts, not even the threat of physical deterioration is enough of a motivation to get clean, as was the case with Sarah.

In spite of her addiction, Sarah began to pursue her only passion besides using drugs which was creating art. She enrolled herself in a printmaking course and began creating exquisitely beautiful modern paintings. Her talent did not go unnoticed- she sold many of her pieces and became an established artist in her community. Considering how severe and chronic her addiction was, the fact that she managed to achieve this was an incredible accomplishment.

By the time she was 30, she was completely beaten down by her addiction. She was homeless, isolated, and could no longer work as an artist. She called the one person in her life who could help her- a local clergy person she had known for years, who arranged and paid for her to enter a long term residential treatment facility. Sarah believed she had finally hit rock bottom.

In treatment, Sarah worked diligently on facing all those issues that led to her addiction. She showed up for her twice-weekly therapy appointments, attended 12-step meetings, and was compliant with her medication. She was convinced that she would never return to a life of addiction,

She became reestablished as an artist and had great success. A curator from a major museum showed interest in her work. She began a romantic relationship with another resident, Josh, in the treatment facility. They went to couple’s therapy, worked on their issues, and vowed to do whatever it took to stay sober together.

More then anything, Sarah wanted to have a baby, and made a conscious choice to get pregnant. She felt grounded in her recovery after 18 months of sobriety and felt prepared to raise and nurture a child in sobriety. She  believed that becoming a mother would inoculate her from her addiction. “I thought that moms who drank and used were pieces of shit,” she said with irony. “When I was shooting up, one of my dealers had a baby and hid the baggies and needles in packages of baby wipes. Her baby was always screaming in another room when I would pick up my dope. I knew it wasn’t cool- I was disgusted. I knew it would never be me.”

She consulted with specialists and did research about getting pregnant with hepatitis C. What she learned is that this is generally considered safe and the rate of transmission to an infant is quite low. She new she was at risk for some complications in her pregnancy and would have to have a c-section.

During her last trimester, she developed cholestasis, a liver disease that only happens in pregnancy, where the normal flow of bile in the gallbladder is affected by the high amounts of pregnancy hormones, and often affects women with hepatitis C. She developed the usual symptoms of  itching, fatigue, and depression. She concurrently contracted, MRSA, a serious staph infection, which people with prior liver damage are particularly prone to. At 33 weeks pregnant, she was hospitalized after not sleeping for several days due to the pain and itching.

“I felt so ashamed and guilty because I knew that all of this was because of the hep C- which I got because I shared needles. What a fucking idiot I was,” she said, defaulting to her usual place of self-hatred and shame, emotions that are often as addictive as the drugs that intensify them.

While in the hospital, Sarah was administered sleep and pain medication for her symptoms. Often times, the combination of exhaustion, physical discomfort, and anxiety is enough to trigger a recovering addict into relapse. In Sarah’s case, once the narcotic medication was back in her system, the mental obsession with getting high was reactivated.

Once she was home with her baby, the nasty and insidious cycle of addiction crept back into her life. First, it was narcotic pain pills after the c-section. Then alcohol re-entered the picture, as well as marijuana. She was fully aware that drugs and alcohol are exacerbating her hepatitis C and further destroying her liver, but she still was unable to stop. Her fiancé, Josh, relapsed into addiction as well, after 18 months of sobriety.

Sarah describes those early months as, “Josh and I would take turns on who could get high and who could watch Annie.” Sarah’s worst fear had come true- her daughter was being raised in a home by addicts.

Sarah and Josh decided their problems were geographical, so they moved across the country to Palm Springs. But her addiction tagged along, like a nasty parasite that refused to die in the desert heat. She is now trying to balance motherhood, her career as an artist, and her addiction, which she tells herself is “under control.”

People like Sarah drink and use because they like the effect produced by alcohol and drugs. They become physically and psychologically addicted to these substances. The sensation is so seductive that while they can admit it is harmful, they learn to rationalize their drinking and using. Once they are under the influence, all bets are off. Their actions and behavior are now dictated by the cocktail of substances consumed, and they are powerless to change unless they get sober.

The guilt and shame that alcoholic and drug-addicted moms’ feel is overwhelming. They believe that they are worthless as mothers if they can’t even stay sober for their children. But the truth is, addiction doesn’t care about one’s children, accomplishments, or health. It only cares about getting the addict high, isolated and alone. That is the very essence of the malady. 

While Sarah recognizes that she needs to stop using and drinking for her health, for her relationship with Josh, and most-importantly for her daughter, she still has a wall of denial that is fueling her addiction. She tries to convince herself that because she is not living on the streets and using heroin, things aren’t that bad. But deep down she knows her only hope for herself and her daughter is to get clean and sober again.

You may be questioning how Sarah could truly love her child and behave so selfishly. It is my belief that it is entirely possible for a woman to both love her children and behave recklessly while under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol. Those of us in the recovery world like to say, “Hate addiction, but love the addict”- a tough concept for someone who thinks that willpower alone is enough to for an addict to stop. Being an addict does not make Sarah a bad mother who needs to get “good”; rather, it makes her a sick woman who needed to get well.

Alcoholism and addiction are a force of evil in the world, but there is hope and recovery. Before we condemn one woman who is caught in the vicious cycle of addiction while raising her daughter, perhaps we can feel compassion for a person who, despite all her best intentions, cannot stop ingesting substances that are destroying her life.

I am certain there are women reading this who can relate to parts of Sarah’s story. If you struggle with alcoholism and addiction in your own life, if you look at Sarah and say, “There by the grace of God go I,” do everything in your power to confront your illness head-on and get sober.

Whatever it takes.

I totally get it. Christmas trees are beautiful….the aroma, the sparkly ornaments, the beautifully wrapped presents underneath. I would be lying to say that at this time of the year, there isn’t a small part of me that wishes that I could partake in the Christmas festivities, too. But I don’t because I’m Jewish. 

Many of my Jewish friends celebrate the Christmas season by decorating their homes with a tree, tinsel, and ornaments. Their reasons for doing so are varied- most often, they don’t want their kids to feel “left out”. Personally, I would much rather have my children feel left out then have them not affiliate with Judaism. I also don’t want them to miss the opportunity to embrace religious pluralism.

Even young children can be taught to understand the difference between Judaism and Christianity, and in the real world we sometimes have to tolerate feeling excluded. As parents, we are often tempted to gratify our child’s every desire because we believe that protecting them from frustration or disappointment is effective parenting. 

Quite the contrary- by indulging your child’s desire for a Christmas tree when it is not part of your religion, you are sending them the message that  the true meaning of religion is insignificant and it all boils down to ornaments and ribbons.

Parents also rationalize this choice by asserting that a Christmas tree has nothing to do with religion, rather, it is a symbol of the season. As a Jew, I would be offended if non-Jews lit menorahs because they thought they made pretty candles. And I respect Christianity and its sacred symbols enough to not call a Christmas tree a Hanukkah bush. 

Yes, it can be very challenging. The season is upon us and Christmas decorations have taken over our city streets, malls, and and supermarkets. My five-year-old son, Shane, is captivated by the shiny lights and decorations. When we walked through the mall the other day, he saw a line of children waiting to sit on Santa’s lap.

“Mommy, can we please do Christmas?” he asked, looking longingly at the Christmas tree set up next to Santa, with all the presents circling around it.

I explained to him again that Christmas isn’t our holiday. Of course we can appreciate the beauty of the decorations and enjoy the festivities, but bringing them into our home bastardizes the sanctity of the holiday. Christmas is about the birth of Jesus Christ, not about a cheery man in a red costume who comes down your chimney and gives you presents. 

“It’s because we’re Jewish.”  Shane said.

Yes, it is because we’re Jewish. And during this season, I hope all parents take the opportunity to talk to their children about the true meaning of your holiday.

Drinking and the holidays are pretty common partners. Between now and the New Year a “cup of cheer” can be hazardous for those already dealing with alcoholism and for others who get caught up in the reveling and can’t say no to just one more cup of eggnog punch.

While it is supposed to be a time of joyous reunion with loved ones, unfortunately, the holidays often expose personal problems and family rifts, which lead to heavy drinking.

Here are some tips on how to manage holiday drinking: 

-Avoid Difficult Situations and People: There is no party or person that is worth risking your health over. If you don’t feel like you can’t attend the event without taking a drink (if you are sober) or overindulging (if you are trying to cut back), then don’t go! If you must make an appearance, then “bookend” the party. Call a supportive friend before you go and tell them that our intention is to not drink, and call the same person after you leave to report your progress.

-Don’t Be Afraid to Make Requests or Contribute: it is striking how few non-alcoholic options there are at parties. Whether it’s a work or family function, it is perfectly acceptable to bring non-alcoholic drinks to a party.

-Don’t Forget to Eat: If you are starving when you get to the party, you are much more likely to make poor choices- this applies not only to alcohol but food too! Having something in your system when you consume alcohol greatly reduces its effects. You will be less likely to binge drink if you have a healthy meal with your alcohol.

-Alternate With Non-Alcoholic Drinks: If you decide to drink alcohol, switch to water or a non-alcoholic beverage after your first drink.

-Use the Buddy System: If you’re trying to cut down or eliminate alcohol from your holiday season, seek out a supportive friend who can join you for outings. Knowing you have someone with you who understands your goals will help you keep them.

-Take the Focus off The Alcohol and Put It On the People: One of the benefits of being sober is that you get to authentically relate to people without the illusive connection that the buzz of alcohol provides. Ask your friends and family members how they’re doing and really listen to their responses. See how you can help the host during the party. By keeping busy and helping others, you will stay out of trouble.

-Have an Exit Strategy: Leave the party before it gets too rowdy and plan a fun event afterwards.

-Most Importantly, If You Do Overindulge, Don’t Drive: If despite your best intentions you find yourself tipsy at the end of the night, swallow your pride and don’t endanger lives by getting behind the wheel. No matter what!

-Know When to Get Help: If you’re still having trouble, ask for help. Visit my site at jenniferginsberg.com for more information and to schedule a consultation.

If you answered yes to three or more of these questions, you may have a problem with alcohol or drugs.  There is help available- consider seeking support from a therapist or addiction counselor in order to get a professional evaluation. If you are in the LA area, please email me at jenginsberg1@gmail.com and check out my site at jenniferginsberg.com for more information about my individual, group, and intervention services.

*This survey is not a diagnostic tool and is only to be used for the purposes of self=assessment.

Happy New Year!

Welcome to all of my new subscribers. I am happy to report that my new site, momaddict.com , is up and running! I am aware that many of my readers are more interested in my humor articles, and others are seeking support for alcohol and drug addiction. I will continue posting all of my AngstMom essays on this site, and I will start posting anything related to addiction and alcoholism on MomAddict.com

MomAddict offers resources, articles, and support for all addicts and alcoholics. Please visit my new site and let me know what you think!

Also, my professional site, JenniferGinsberg.com is up as well. If you are interested in learning more about my individual and group services, please check it out!