Scary Mommy's Guide to Surviving the Holidays

by Jill Smokler

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  THE BOOK

  Fooling distant relatives into believing your children actually have decent table manners. Entertaining kids who refuse to actually do anything over an endless winter break. Battling overcrowded malls to purchase the “must-have” toys, which will provide approximately thirty minutes of joy. Wrapping gifts like it’s your job and your only job. The fucking elf on the fucking shelf. Attempting to get through eight nights of nonstop gifts without turning your children into spoiled brats in the process. Capturing smiling faces for yearly holiday cards. Snowsuits and unzipped coats and a million lost mittens and gloves.

  Welcome to the most wonderful stressful time of the year!

  Before children, the holiday season was a mixed bag. Sure, there was some stress around cooking an oversized bird and hitting the mall on Black Friday, but it was nothing compared to the holiday season with children. Getting through the holidays is no longer a matter of joy and celebration; it’s survival of the fittest.

  It is my hope that this book provides you not only with some much-needed laughs and yummy recipes that won’t take all day to prepare, but with comfort in knowing that you’re not the only mom counting down the days until the new year.

  Join the club!

  Here’s to all of us coming out of the holiday season in one piece. God help us, every one.

  THE CHARITY

  Scary Mommy has always represented the honest side of motherhood. We believe there is no shame in admitting parenting is far from easy and the gig is not always all it’s cracked up to be.

  Together, we struggle with feeding babies, not getting nearly enough sleep, and showering far less frequently than we’d like. We commiserate over sending kindergarteners to school in the fall and groan when the year comes to a screeching halt in the spring. We vent about our tweens’ attitude problem, the smell of our sons’ rooms, and our husbands’ snoring. Motherhood is easier because we share it—the good, the bad, and the scary—with one another.

  But for all the struggles we share, being able to provide the basics for our children shouldn’t be one of them. Back in mid-November of 2011, I read several upsetting confessions on the Scary Mommy Confessional:

  I can barely afford to feed my family. It’s humiliating.

  I am so broke I went to get a food box. They told me I make too much money and I just cried and cried. I have no food. I don’t live extravagantly. I work at the welfare office. I can’t even tell my family how bad it is.

  Thanksgiving dinner? Ha. I can’t even buy a loaf of bread.

  My husband just lost his job. I have no idea how we are going to put food on the table.

  As I began the preparations for my own Thanksgiving dinner, I couldn’t shake the fact that moms—moms just like me—wouldn’t be able to have celebrations of their own. Thanksgiving, a holiday that should be about nothing but love and gratitude, was anything but for these moms. On a whim, I turned to my community: If these women (or others who were struggling as well) could step up and ask for help, would the community join me in helping them?

  Some quick research told me that the average Thanksgiving dinner costs fifty dollars. I offered to buy the first two people who needed help a grocery store gift card and hoped to match up anyone else I could. I thought maybe we’d be able to help a dozen or so families. Instead, I learned just how amazing the Scary Mommy community is: in four short days, we raised $18,000, buying dinner for almost four hundred families in need. It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

  The Thanksgiving Project is now part of Scary Mommy Nation, an official 501(c)(3) charity, and has helped over four thousand families celebrate a holiday they otherwise couldn’t have. Every year, it continues to inspire me more and more.

  Thanksgiving is never going to be perfect; the turkey will be overcooked, someone will forget to add sugar to the cranberry sauce, or the pie will fall on the floor moments before serving. But, like the low moments in motherhood, those things are quickly forgotten as we remember what really matters: our children, and our great love for them. Because that’s what the holiday is all about.

  Thank you for supporting the Thanksgiving Project through your purchase of this book. Learn more or donate to a family in need at scarymommynation.com.

  SCARY MOMMY CONFESSIONS

  ★ I wear my maternity pants every Thanksgiving so I can eat all the food I want without worrying about the button digging into my stomach. My kid is six years old.

  ★ Every year, I pretend I have to hunt at multiple stores to find a turkey while my husband watches the kids, when in actuality I’m drinking coffee by myself at Starbucks.

  ★ I am an environmentalist who gives it all up for Thanksgiving. There’s no way I’m washing all of those plates. Paper plates for everyone!

  ★ I bring store-bought pies to my family Thanksgiving and claim they’re homemade. I’ve never been busted.

  ★ One year I faked the flu so I could get out of cooking Thanksgiving and sent the kids to their grandparents’. It was the best night I’ve ever had.

  ★ Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday . . . until it actually arrives. Then? I hate it.

  ★ While I tell people at Thanksgiving that I’m thankful for my family, I really want to say I’m thankful for the wine.

  ★ I once went to Thanksgiving high as a kite and my parents didn’t notice. But I am pretty sure that the turkey was giving me the eye.

  ★ I invited some new friends over for Thanksgiving dinner without thinking about the fact that I don’t know how to cook. Bought the whole thing from Boston Market and played it off as my own cooking.

  ★ I once told my eighty-four-year-old grandma that my husband had to work and my kid was sick so we could go and have Thanksgiving with friends.

  ★ When I was younger I thought that the whisk was Mom’s hair curler and I couldn’t understand why we would ever use it to make mashed potatoes.

  ★ I dropped the cooked turkey on the floor—the not-very-clean floor—and served it anyway.

  ★ I take all of my MIL’s labels off of gifts and say they’re from Santa.

  ★ I’m a conservative Jew . . . and I’ve always longed for a Christmas tree.

  ★ Instead of carving a turkey, I dream of carving my mother-in-law’s neck.

  ★ I finally have Thanksgiving off for the first time in five years. But instead of telling anyone, I’m spending the day in bed and showing up to family dinner at 4:00 p.m. BEST THANKSGIVING EVER!

  ★ One of the things I’m most grateful for this Thanksgiving is that I can afford biweekly electrolysis treatments to my chin.

  1

  THE THANKLESSNESS OF MOTHERHOOD

  by Jill Smokler

  Motherhood, as wondrous and fulfilling as it may be, is an utterly thankless job.

  When else is it considered acceptable to be hollered for when someone needs an ass wiping, and not get so much as a thank-you for a job well done?

  Just last week, I had to turn around immediately after school dropoff, drive back home to find Lily’s cleats, and return to school just to deliver them to her. Did I get so much as a thank- you? No, I got attitude for forgetting her socks.

>   Back when I brought my laundry to the wash and dry in college, I certainly mustered up a smile and a thank-you as it was presented to me all clean and folded in my plastic laundry basket (those were the days). My children, however, seem to think the clothes magically end up clean and organized in their drawers while they sleep. If only.

  Dinner is met with eyerolls rather than appreciation and, God forbid, I not have their favorite cereal stocked in the pantry. But when I do have it stocked, ninety-nine percent of the time, do you think I get so much as a “thanks!”? No. I do not.

  Obviously, I do these things because I love my children and taking care of them—asses and all—is what I signed up for. But every once in a while, a sincere “thank you for everything you do, Mom” would be nice.

  That’s why, once I became a mother, Thanksgiving took the cake as my favorite holiday. A day to really reflect on all that I’m grateful for, and even better, a day to be lavished in gratitude myself. None of the Hallmark cheesiness of Mother’s Day and no messy breakfasts in bed to clean up after. Just one day a year to truly be thankful for my three biggest blessings, and to be celebrated by them, as well. Sign me up!

  Except it never seems to happen like that.

  “What are you thankful for?” I asked the kids a few years back, desperately fishing for compliments when they weren’t flowing as I’d hoped.

  “Poop,” Evan enthusiastically responded. Poop? Ooookay, strike one. Luckily I have three kids.

  “Eating ice cream,” Ben followed up with. Ice cream? None for you today, punk.

  “Ummmmm . . .” Lily was thoughtful. This was what I’d been waiting for. She was my new favorite, perhaps for life.

  “Daddy,” she finally pronounced.

  Daddy? Daddy?

  Daddy, who was napping on the couch and hadn’t or wouldn’t lift a finger to prepare the delicious dinner you’re about to inhale? DADDY? Daddy didn’t carry you and birth you and sure as hell isn’t sporting stretch marks because of you. Daddy? And ice cream? And poop?! Who the hell raised these children and did they come with a return policy?

  “That’s nice,” I mustered up. “What about me?”

  “Of course, you,” she responded.

  Well, okay. Of course me.

  After Daddy, poop and ice cream.

  That’s motherhood for you.

  2

  PREPARING TO HOST THANKSGIVING DINNER . . . WITH CHILDREN

  by Amy Hunter

  STEP ONE: Get all the shopping done before the kids are on Thanksgiving break. Shopping with kids is additional stress that you don’t need, and when your shopping list consists of over eighty items, you don’t want this to be the time your preschooler “wants to be in charge of the shopping list.” Make sure you have a wingman on speed dial to get you the shit you forgot, because you will forget something.

  STEP TWO: Pour yourself a drink. A stiff drink, preferably with alcohol. This is where a sober-driver wingman will come into play when a large bus of nuns breaks down on your street and you have to set the table for six more diners to share your feast with. You can’t say no to nuns, even if you wanted to. Nope, nuns will always have a place to eat Thanksgiving dinner. Besides, they bring the good juju.

  STEP THREE: Defrost the turkey. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but my family still tells a story from 1971 where my newly married aunt served a frozen turkey for Thanksgiving dinner, and while we want the meal to be memorable, we don’t want it to be that kind of memory. Think “delicious memory,” not “you’re-gonna-spend-more-money-on-therapy memory.”

  STEP FOUR: Prepare everything you can in advance. I’ve always been a firm believer that food needs to be as farm-to-table fresh as it possibly can be, and that’s true . . . if you’re in a freaking restaurant. I’m not a professional chef, or a line cook (although my kids do act like this joint is a diner) and once I had mouths to feed that weren’t my own, “fresh” took on a whole new definition. If I mix more than three ingredients, it’s fresh. So . . . green bean casserole? That bitch can be made the day (or two days) before and reheated right before it’s served. Same with pumpkin pie. Besides, my ninety-one-year-old grandma is the only one who eats that anyway. What’s a couple extra days when you’re ninety-one?

  STEP FIVE: Set the table. My mother-in-law, hubby-to-be, and I shopped forever for the perfect “good china” when we got married, and now . . . you guessed it, we are breaking those bad boys out. Of course, we never registered for place settings for twenty people, but it’s not like I’m going to let the kids use the good dishes anyway. Shabby chic is back in! Right? As you unpack, dust, and set up, of course the three-year-old wants to hold the largest and most expensive piece to replace. Attempt to refocus him with a task less daunting, like coloring pictures of pumpkins. Set him up with that someplace far away from you, so there won’t be any “See Mom? SEEEEE???? MOM!!!!” while you are working.

  STEP SIX: Dessert. Dessert is the most ridiculous part of Thanksgiving dinner because usually everyone is so damn full and tired, they barely even touch the magnificent sweets, which are the biggest time-suck to a mom chef. This is the reason the wise outsource dessert. Aunt Carol wants to make apple pie? Excellent. Go on with your bad self, Aunt Carol.

  STEP SEVEN: The stuffing. Some people prefer to cook the stuffing in the bird, some prefer it cooked out of the bird. Of course my family is split down the middle as to their preference, so I do both, because God forbid they can make things easy and the last thing I want to listen to for the next five hours is how the stuffing could have been better if I just . . . Nope. No way. I’d rather stick myself in the eye with a pencil.

  STEP EIGHT: Cooking the bird. You finally have a defrosted turkey and it’s time to cook it. You have one hand in its carcass and you’re pulling out all the innards when the nine-year-old informs you that his little brother has stopped coloring pumpkins and started coloring the wall. Leave the turkey in the sink and grab your Magic Eraser. Refocus the preschooler with his brother’s iPod while he YouTubes surprise egg videos.

  STEP NINE: Dress yourself and the children. If you’re a rock star, you’ve already put some thought into this. Appropriate outfits have been washed and picked out the night before along with dress shoes and socks. If you’re me, this is the time to push the panic button or even consider canceling Thanksgiving altogether. The mad scramble ensues of attempting to find clothing to fit children that seem to be growing at a rapid pace. Once I’ve established their outfits, I make them sit around in their underwear until five minutes before the guests are expected. It only took one experience of a child in dress clothes to become covered in mud or grass or markers for this to become our norm. They don’t even question it anymore.

  STEP TEN: Enjoy the fruits of your labor and bask in the adoration of your family.

  Just kidding. This gig is thankless. You know that. You’re not surprised. Our kids don’t notice all the little things we do for them every day, and when it comes to adults giving you props, they are even worse. The truth is, they might not appreciate it. They might not appreciate you. But you did it! You cooked and cleaned your ass off and you rocked it. You’re wearing your favorite apron, standing over the Thanksgiving table that was a labor of love, you have a smile on your face and a (seventh) drink in your hand, and they say, “Mom always makes two different kinds of stuffing to make everyone happy. Mom is awesome like that.”

  And you are.

  3

  THANKSGIVING ETIQUETTE MANIFESTO

  by Leslie Marinelli

  Every year, I spend weeks planning and preparing for the most highly anticipated meal of the year, only to have my Rockwellian dreams shattered in a matter of seconds by the arrival of my extended family. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last eleven years of hosting this iconic holiday event, it’s that you can’t choose your relatives. And the definition of insanity really is doing the same thing ov
er and over while expecting different results.

  I’m tired of being disappointed year after year by my family’s consistent lack of etiquette, gratitude, and basic hygiene. The solution? A Thanksgiving Etiquette Manifesto so everyone knows exactly what I expect this year. It will either improve our communication, or offend everyone so much that nobody comes. Either way, I win.

  Dear family:

  You will arrive on time. Show some respect. Being “fashionably late” to a holiday meal is about as cool as carrying a CB radio in your fanny pack. Nothing throws a wrench in the works like having to stop my rhythmic gravy whisking to properly welcome people who arrive two hours late. I don’t care if you’re family. You jack up my gravy and I’ll cut you.

  You will be completely dressed and groomed before you arrive. And no, sweatpants don’t count. I’ve been cleaning and cooking for weeks at this point. Take a shower and put on some real pants. Also, just because we share the same surname does not mean it’s even remotely okay for you to borrow my husband’s toenail clippers and then proceed to use them on my coffee table.

  You will not enter my home empty-handed. Nothing soothes the savage beast like a hostess gift. Flowers are lovely, but do me a solid and put them in a vase before you arrive. I can’t possibly be bothered arranging your last-minute discount grocery store bouquet while I’m sweeping up Uncle Zebedee’s toenail clippings. Even better, how about if you all go in on a gift certificate for a massage? I’m much more likely to forgive you for burning a hole in my grandmother’s antique tablecloth if you treat me to a one-hour therapeutic session with a man named Hans.

  You will not use your smartphone at my holiday table. I don’t care if you’re a moody teenager. I don’t care if you’re shy. I don’t care if your parents let you do it at home. It’s rude to use technology at the table. Do it again, and so help me God, I will snatch that little glowing box from your hands and toss it right out my front door. And when you go to retrieve it, I will lock your rude little ass outside with the dog faster than you can say, “OMG.” More pie for me, motherfucker.