Yeah. Me neither.

No one thinks about Hannukah.  No one talks about it or sings about it, or makes claymation shows about it. (although these Yeshiva U. guys did make a great video about it.) And all that lack of attention to Hannukah makes my kids feel like outcasts.

Think about it, there are no songs about Hannukah being the most wonderful time of the year, no movies about mean people becoming nice when they find the Hannukah spirit, no jolly old men (old Jewish men aren’t -  by genetic predisposition -jolly) in bright red suits.  And, of course, no tree. We’ve got a candelabra.   Oooh!

My daughter, especially, complains every year throughout “the holiday season” (who are they kidding?  they mean CHRISTMAS season) that “nobody cares.”  And I can see her point. Every commercial talks about Christmas Shopping, every store window has Christmas decorations, every time you turn around it’s Christmas this and Christmas that.  There’s the token “Happy Hannukah” or the generic and meaningless “Happy Holidays” tossed in there too, but let’s face it: Christmas Rules;  Hannukah drips wax on your table.

The worst of it came earlier this week when my kids and I watched Glee.  Or should I say we watched A Very Special Glee Christmas. Because the entire show featured everyone – even the purportedly Jewish characters, donning green and red and singing Christmas songs.

Glee is my daughter’s favorite show.  She is obsessed.  She loves it.  But this episode made her cry.

Glee’s Christmas Spectacular of an episode made her realize just how out of the popular consciousness Hannukah, and therefore Judaism is.  “Everything is Christmas!” she cried and cried. “No one cares! Nobody cares about Hannukah!”  And so she felt that no one cared about her – in the deepest sense of who she is.

Hannukah is not, truth be told, a particularly significant Jewish Holiday.  It is a historic, rather than religious one.  So it isn’t so much about Hannukah itself, as about NOT being part of Christmas. (And please don’t tell me I should celebrate it because it’s American – not really Christian.  It’s Jesus’ birthday.)

Part of me thinks “She had to find out sometime.”  Living in New York, she thinks that Jews are everywhere.  When my kids were three, and going to a Jewish nursery school, we were trying to cross town on Saint Patrick’s Day.  “Why is it so busy?” asked my son. “Is it Purim?”

Yeah. Purim is why thousands of people descend on the city, get drunk, and throw up here.  Though I guess the getting drunk and puking part kind of does describe Purim.

The point is, at some point, the reality is going to set it: Jews are such a small percentage of the US and World population as to not even be a blip on the consciousness of most Americans.

But another part of me wants her to feel that being Jewish matters. I want her to feel a part of a 5,000+ year old culture and community (and religion, but that’s less my personal focus.) I don’t want her to think of her Jewishness as something that nobody cares about.  Or to be something she doesn’t care about.

So how about this?  When the Glee crowd does their holiday episode next year, Rachel and Puck (well, they’re graduating – but whatever) mention that they don’t happen to celebrate Christmas.  They don’t say things like “best Christmas ever!” They can join in the holiday fun.  They can sing carols for all I care, but at least acknowledge who they are. And not just for comic effect.

Maybe Puck can even sing another Neil Diamond song.

Reader Advisory: If you’re going to be bothered about me bragging about my kid, skip the next few sentences!

This year, my daughter informed me, she doesn’t want any nights of getting – just eight nights of giving.

Can I have an awwww?

Ok, so she probably doesn’t really mean it.  If we really didn’t get her any gifts, I’m sure she’d be plenty upset. But I’m proud of her for having that thought.  I’m proud of my husband and me for planting the seed that turned into that thought. Since this is a post about Hannukah: I’m kvelling.

I don’t expect every kid to feel that way.  (she does have, ahem, a brother) But wouldn’t it be nice to try? Wouldn’t you like to find a way to remind your kids (and yourself) that getting stuff isn’t all there is? Wouldn’t it be great to figure out a meaningful way to give instead of get?

I’ve found a way: generationOn.

For the second year in a row, generationOn and Hasbro are making it easy for your child to give back, learn something, and help make the holidays a little bit brighter for a child in need through the generationOn Holiday Gift Campaign. From now through December 13, every time a child or teen takes the pledge to volunteer at www.generationOn.org, Hasbro will donate a toy through Toys for Tots. They’ve pledged to donate up to 100,000 toys, and wouldn’t it be fabulous if that many kids and teens pledged to volunteer?

Look, I know the holiday season is busy. You have shopping to do. Lists to make. Meals to cook. Long lost relatives to buy gifts for.  But it can also a time to help children learn that sometimes giving….well, it kind of ends up feeling like you’re getting something.

Research shows that the types of gifts children give to others help shape their identities throughout adolescence. For example, family projects that involve giving to those in need can teach kids compassion and empathy in a truly meaningful way.

Motivating kids to give back through volunteering doesn’t have to be a big deal.  Start off with something simple that has the potential to plant that seed of service and volunteering that will grow with them into adulthood. The generationOn Holiday Gift Campaign provides kids and teens with lots of ideas for easy and fun ways to make a big difference in the lives of others and to understand the true spirit of the holidays.

The more kids and teens that take action, the more toys will be donated to those in need.

So go, take action. And whatever you’re celebrating this year, I hope you have a Holiday filled with all kinds of gifts.

Me as Heddy La Rue in my High School Production of How to Succeed...

I grew up in a family where sports were virtually non-existent. My father never watched a single game. My brother never played on a team. My mother couldn’t have named a single professional athlete.  My sister and I were wholly uninterested (and unskilled) at organized sports.  We weren’t un-coordinated.  My brother was a ski instructor in Utah, my sister was an excellent at figure skating, and me – well,  give me a dance step, and I’d learn it in a heartbeat. I was the star in every school play,  the soloist in every choral performance.

But until I became a mother myself, I didn’t realize just how much better it is to be the mother of a drama geek than a soccer-playing, baseball bat swinging, basketball, football or lacrosse ball hurling kid. Why? Read on.

1. Drama Moms never have to stand outside in sub-zero weather watching their eight year old get crushed by the opposing team.  Yes, that’s right.  Rehearsals take place INdoors, thank you very much.  Ditto for performances.  Drama Moms watch their kids doing their after school activities from a cushioned seat in a heated theatre. Think of that next time you’re freezing your butt off at a 3rd grade soccer game.

2.  There is no such thing as a 7:30am Saturday morning rehearsal.  Why is it that kids have to play sports at such an un-Godly hour? Drama Geeks (and their parents) operate on theatre time – in preparation, no doubt, for their inevitable future on the Broadway stage. (Ha!)  That means nothing starts before 10am. Ever.

3. Performances are Short Lived. If your child plays on a school team, there are – oh, I don’t know – about 492 games a season.  And they’re during the day.  If you go to the all of the games, you’ll be fired from your job.  And if you don’t, you’ll be plagued with guilt forever. No matter how bad your kids’ school play is, chances are, there will only be two of three performances of it. At night. When you’d be home from work anyway.  Livelihood and sanity saved.

4. There’s no such thing as a Travel Show. Travel Teams are the bane of even the most enthusiastic sports-mom’s life. No one, no matter how genuinely thrilled to watch their child’s every pass and play, relishes driving three hours — each way — to do so. School plays are performed…get this — at school!  And chances are, that’s right nearby.

5. Injuries are Kept to a Minimum.  The expression “break a leg” aside, there’s very little chance of show-related injuries.  Sure, the occasional dancer twists an ankle, but climbing up the ladder in your High School production of Our Town is unlikely to result in a visit to the emergency room. Of course there is the possibility of an untalented off-spring straining your ability to enthuse over his off-key rendition of The Impossible Dream, but that’s your problem.

6. Your Kid will learn Applicable Life Skills. I know all about sports giving kids confidence, and teaching them about teamwork.  Drama Club does that, too. I mean, have you ever seen a one woman production of Twelve Angry Men? But what drama club teaches that sports do not, is the art of pretending.  Hate your boss? Your drama club experience will allow you to act like you don’t think said boss is a useless waste of corporate space. You may even have learned enough to be convincingly enthusiastic about working for him or her.  This will get you a promotion, or even get you your boss’s job. If you were a child athlete, however, you may end up kicking him, or fouling him, or whatever other sports terms there are for un-sportsmanlike conduct. You’ll be fired and unemployable – the overly physical disgruntled employee. Sorry.

7. Less laundry. Let’s do some math, shall we?  Let’s say your child plays little league baseball from age 7-10.  One game a week, for an 8 week season, at one post game ice cream per week equals 32 loads of laundry.  Then, once they get older, they’re playing soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter and baseball in the spring, for 96 more loads of laundry. If they play on a travel team, add other 50 loads during the same period.  That’s 178 loads of laundry.

Not so in the drama club, kids just wear the same sweaty costume some kid wore last time they did that play.

8.  You can’t lose the school play – Just this week, my son’s 5th/6th grade soccer team lost 14-nothing to the opposing team. Even if the play stinks, there will be no comparable concrete evidence of that for the drama kid, just applause.

There are some pitfalls – Drama Moms can become Stage Moms, a terrifying prospect for anyone who has ever seen an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras or a dinner theater interpretation of  that  cautionary musical for Drama Mama’s everywhere, Gypsy.  They may be deluded as to the extent of their child’s talent and force family members to listen to a rendition of Corner of the Sky every time an elderly relative hits a milestone. (Soccer Moms don’t force their kids to “kick for grandma!”)

But still, give me the no early practice, indoor, injury free life of a Drama Mom! Please?

First Day of First Grade - So Looong Ago

With Middle School started, and the eye rolling at everything I say begun, it’s nice to remember, there were once Strawberry Shortcake backpacks to pack, and Incredible Hulk bags that lit up when you pressed them. It’s nice to remember when they held my hand walking to school.

Guess I’ll have to wait for the grandchildren…only 20 years or so to go!

Remember sitting at the Popular Table? Me neither.

My twins started Middle School this week. And while their elementary school years brought back sweet memories, their starting Middle School brings me back to what was most definitely the most miserable time of my life: Junior High.

First there was my body.  My feet as big as flippers, hair sprouting in places no one wants hair, (Witness the endless Groupons for Hair Removal).  Even the hair on my head was too frizzy to be wrestled into the Farrah Fawcett Flip. And of course my boobs were sprouting.  I never did understand how training bras got their name. What, exactly, do they train boobs to do?  Stand at attention?  Really, what’s the point of training them?  They just get old and forget everything they learned anyway. Trust me – I’m a prime example of:

time + pregnancy + gravity = maximum saggage.

My nose changed in middle school, morphing me from a sweet little button-nosed kid into a frightening rendition of my Grandpa Simca.  And let’s not forget the braces.  I had the invisible kind.  Only they weren’t.  They were yellow and stained and made me look like I’d had a pack-and-half-a-day habit since I was six.

At pick up the other day, I saw an eighth grade girl with heavy eyeliner, fishnet stockings, and bright pink hair. I saw High School girls who were way too fashionable to be kid-like in the least. I saw seventh grade boys who, just last year, were smooth skinned and smiley but are now peach-fuzzed and sullen.  And everywhere I saw heads bowed, everyone texting furiously.

The days of happy cries of “Mommy! Mommy!”  at pick up are long long gone for me.

Since they are not burdened with traumatic memories of middle school, my kids liked their first few days.  For the first time, they don’t have a specific classroom.  They move around from subject to subject. They’re interacting with kids in upper grades.  The school building is much more spacious than their Lower School’s was. It’s a bit overwhelming – but exciting.

But I can’t shake my memories of that dark, dark time. When Michael Philips teased me mercilessly, and my ridiculously long, unrequited, utterly humiliating crush on Joel Malina began.  I worry about the mean girl stuff, the “does he like me?” drama, the complete freakiness of a body that used to be one thing….and now is quite another.

But of course I can’t tell them any of that.  I talk about how great and exciting it’s going to be.  How much fun middle school was.  I lie.

I hope their middle school years are better than mine.  I hope they don’t experience petty meanness or paralyzing insecurity.  And I really, really hope my daughter doesn’t get the nose.

After four weeks at sleepaway camp, this weekend is visiting day.  Here’s the list my daughter sent, categorizing the essentials. I love that on the one hand, she asks for sushi, dried seaweed, and dried strawberries.  And on the other hand, she lists Fart Putty as a visiting day essential. Priceless.

Could My Living Room be Any Messier? Poor dog!

18 pairs of socks, 12 t-shirts, 15 pairs of underwear, 2 sets of pajamas, 8 towels, 2 sets of sheets.  Think this is inventory at my new shop?  Think again: this is but a small small sample of the camp list I’m referring to as I am packing my two kids up for camp.

I thought that since it’s my second year packing them up and shipping them out,  it wouldn’t be so bad this time.  Turns out – no matter how many times you’ve done it, packing up two kids for sleepaway camp is  one of the more odious tasks of (Jewish, Upper West Side) motherhood First of all, it’s a mountainous reminder that my kids are leaving me. That they will ultimately really leave me, and that really, them leaving me (did you get that I’m kind of obsessing over the fact that they’re leaving me?) is kind of what this mothering thing is all about. Love them, teach them, send them away to share all that awesomeness with someone else. Preferably someone who doens’t make mother-in-law jokes about you behind your back. Then there’s the fact that there is SO MUCH STUFF. Why, I ask you, do my kids need 18 pairs of socks each? (Although I can answer that, since last year, I sent my son to camp with 18 pairs of socks and he came home with three. Including the ones on his feet.) Why do they need a big foam egg crate to put on top of their cot mattress? When I went to camp we just used sheets. And while we’re on the subject – why do they need special cot sheets? What’s wrong with shoving a set of twin sheets deep under the mattress for a few weeks? Yeesh. I hate sewing labels into 36 socks (or in my case (twins)72. Oy Vey).

I hate that their gigantic trunks take up half my living room. I hate that it’s all on me. I don’t even think my husband has noticed the giant mound of STUFF that has invaded our lives. I know he hasn’t nearly gone blind threading and re-threading that damn needle. (Hello out there: the eyes of needles have clearly gotten smaller.  With whom should I register my complaint?  Oh, the Office of the Middle Aged? Thanks.)

But the thing is, I love that, just like I did, they’re going to sleep away camp. That they’ll sing songs, and learn secret handshakes, and play Nukem and Spud and Red Rover. i love that they will get so filthy it will take three days to get off the grime when they come home. I love that they’ll hate camp food and eat it anyway. I love that they get to spend seven (!) weeks in a beautiful camp on a lake in New Hampshire in a place that’s totally theirs…and not mine at all. But I still hate packing them up.